


The Art of Staying Good

by orphan_account



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 65th Hunger Games, 70th Hunger Games, Canon Compliant, Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Rape/Non-con, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Multi, Odesta, Other, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 62,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'"The happy lives Victors live…it's not real, Finnick. They get the money and the fame but they're all broken. The smiles they put on afterward are fake, trying to mask the horror of what they've seen and done. The only ones who even seem slightly okay with it are the most ruthless and horrible Victors: the killing machines. And I realized I couldn't do it." Myron breathed in heavily. "And if I can't, you definitely can't. Because you're good, Finn. Don't let anyone tell you anything else."</p><p>Finnick wondered if his brother was psychic, for those were the words he would cling to for the next ten years of his life.'</p><p>When Finnick was reaped at fourteen, he thought surviving the Arena would be his greatest challenge. Unfortunately, the Games never end for any Victor.</p><p>Particularly not attractive ones.</p><p>The tale of how Finnick Odair nearly lost himself, found love, and above all remained good in a cruel world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to your life

**Author's Note:**

> This is a transfer from Fanfiction.net though I've re-structured it. Currently (as of 2:00 a.m. 12/30/13) it is 62k long and 7 chapters. It is still unfinished on Fanfiction.net and I will update this version of it as often as I update that one. 
> 
> The chapter titles come from the song "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Lorde, an amazing track on the Catching Fire soundtrack. I highly recommend it.

The first time Finnick met Mags, it was clear she was utterly unimpressed with him.

He was in primary school at the time, before Training, before he even had to think about the Games. He _did_ think a little about them, but not in the way the other boys did. His brother Myron was in his late teens and the top of his training class. Some day soon he would volunteer and would bring honor and wealth to their family, and glory to District Four. The closer that day came, the more excited everyone became. District Four hadn't had a Victor in years. They had the unique problem of being known as a Career district but not receiving the same level of training as Districts One and Two did. In all the years Finnick had watched the Games, the District Four Tributes typically survived the Cornucopia and allied with the other Careers, only to be killed off either in fights against other Tributes and alliances, or by the other Careers once it was only them left.

Myron promised not to do that, though. He was tough, the strongest fighter in District Four and he could survive anything on his own. Myron would not be fodder for the other Careers. He was going to be a Victor.

Finnick, however, was not going to be one. He was going to be put through Training like everyone else still, because if he ever was Reaped and nobody volunteered – sometimes that happened, rarely – he needed to be prepared. It was going to stretch their resources down to the bone for the one year they were both in Training, but if Myron won the Games they would never have to want for anything ever again.

Still, everyone knew Myron was the champion of the brothers. He was hailed everywhere he went, already treated like a Victor. And Finnick? Well, he was 'Myron's little brother.' The little Odair, the cute Odair. Old women pinched his cheeks and said, "Oh, aren't you just the sweetest thing?"

Nobody ever pinched Myron's cheeks.

And Finnick pretended to be fine with it all, except he wasn't. On their kitchen door where their mother marked their growth, Myron's marks were always so far above Finnick's. Sometimes in his dreams he was standing in the Capitol with the Victor's crown on his head, waving at the crowd as they chanted _his_ name. Not Myron's. He wasn't interested in the violence or the thrill of victory. He just wanted to be noticed, to be seen for _him_.

That was probably why he accepted the dare.

The Victors' Village was a place of wealth and mystery. District Four had quite a few Victors – not as many as Districts One and Two, but more than the other Districts – and they all seemed to keep to themselves, in their own private clique. Some of them were rather normal and you'd see them on the street, buying fruit from the market and a few would even wave. Some of them were bizarre, and you'd only see them up on the stage for special events, all twitchy and nervous. And some of them were so completely private and mysterious that the District Four children had no choice but to make up stories about them.

One of those stories was about the old woman who won the Games back when they were first beginning. She hardly mentored anymore, never came out of her house, barely even showed up to the special events. She was so small and frail the only possible explanation for how she won was magic. Yarvis Tidewell was convinced that she was the old witch from a tale he'd heard when he was small about a witch who grew a magic plant that could cure death. Finnick and the other boys had scoffed, because there was no such thing as magic, and Finnick was old enough and heartbroken enough to know that nothing could cure death.

They'd teased Yarvis about it, but he was too clever and too much of a bully to let anything they said get to him. Instead, he turned it around. "Well, if you guys don't believe, me why don't you break into her garden and prove it to me?"

That brought nervous laughs and some roughhousing. Ray Donavan raised his hand and said, "I volunteer…Gregor as Tribute!" He pushed Gregor Underwood forward, who stumbled as everyone laughed.

"Odair should do it." Yarvis insisted, his tone jesting but his smile mean. "Come on, you've got the genes of a Victor, right?"

"Yeah, Finnick, show us you're more than just a pretty face!"

And that's how Finnick ended up breaking into Mags's garden.

It was stupid, of course. He _was_ more than a pretty face, so he knew that. But this could be his chance, his opportunity… and if there was a magic plant that could cure death, he'd sure like to know about it.

The Village was quiet and still when he climbed over the wall separating it from the rest of the District. He couldn't help but gape at some of the things he saw in the window. Crystal vases, huge projection screens, and beautiful china. They'd had a set of china once, given to his parents as a wedding present from his mother's grandmother. They'd had to sell it after Finnick's dad died, and he still remembered his mother crying harder than she'd ever seen her when she sold the china. He'd thought it strange she seemed more upset about losing the china than their dad, but Myron explained that sometimes people get so deeply sad all their energy goes toward breathing and walking and simply have none left for tears.

The house was the smallest and shabbiest of the Victors' houses. There were nice things in the windows like all the other houses, but they were old things, not new and extravagant. No, the most extravagant thing about the house was the garden, where beautiful flowers and ripe fruits were in full blossom. Finnick's stomach growled. He'd tagged along with the catch that morning and had forgotten to get breakfast before school. He recognized strawberries on the other side and made his way over. Fresh fruit was rare in District Four, since their whole focus was on the ocean. Most of their fruits were imports: dried and expensive. There was a local fruit market, but every time he went nothing good was in season. His mom liked to call him "Finicky Finnick" and it was true. He was picky, dreadfully picky.

But he loved strawberries.

Before he knew it he was stuffing them into his mouth, the red juice smashing against his lips. The taste was sweet, almost as sweet as the sugar cubes his dad used to sneak him behind his mother's stern eye. It was pure bliss and for a moment Finnick wondered if maybe strawberries were the fruit that cured death.

He heard the sound of a door opening and froze.

The old woman was standing on the porch, one hand on her cane and the other on her hip. Her mouth was drawn into a firm line. Finnick knew he should run: he _could_ run, there was no way she could keep up with him. But her gaze kept him frozen there.

"Are you starving, boy?"

It took him a few moments to understand what she was saying. She was missing quite a lot of teeth.

"No." He replied automatically, and then looked down at his red-stained fingers and fingernails in shame.

"Then why are you in my garden?"

Something about her tone, or her face, made it impossible to lie. "It was a dare." He blurted out, wondering if she really was a witch to pull these truths out of him.

"You were dared to sneak into my garden and eat my strawberries." Her voice was flat and surprisingly full of a sort of wry humor.

"No, I was dared to sneak into your garden. I just love strawberries." The words sounded stupid and greedy as he said them and he could tell by the way she shook her head she was totally unimpressed with that answer.

"Go, before my neighbors call the Peacekeepers."

 _That_ got Finnick up and scrambling. Neither he nor his brother had ever gotten into trouble with the Peacekeepers and he did not want to be the first one. Not because he was scared of the Peacekeepers per se. No, the thought of his mother's disappointment was much more terrifying.

He made a beeline straight for her garden wall, even though leaving that way would make him have to walk all the way around the Village. Before he climbed it, he paused and looked back.

"Is it true that you have a plant that can cure death?"

She surprised him then by laughing sadly.

"If only, child. If only."

* * *

 

 He didn't see Mags again until a year and a half later, at the Reaping. He still had two more years before his first Reaping, so he was standing off to the side with his other friends from Training. As it turned out, Finnick was reasonably good at Training, though not as good as Myron. Never as good as Myron.

It was Myron's sixth Reaping and everyone knew he was going to volunteer. They were all waiting with bated breath for the boy's name to be called, just to hear Myron's strong voice call out in triumph. It was an incredible relief for all the boys that year, knowing they had a free pass. Finnick craned his neck and caught a glimpse of Myron. He seemed nervous, tugging on his tie and adjusting it. That wasn't right. Myron was never nervous. Unsettled, Finnick turned his gaze up to a smaller stage to the side, where the other Victors were sitting. Even some of the ones who managed to get out of coming the other times were there, probably because they heard District Four might have a Victor this time. The old lady was sitting at the back and Finnick was startled when she caught his eye. He was just starting to wonder if she remembered him when she very distinctively winked.

He looked away quickly, hot embarrassment creeping up his neck.

"You ready for this?" Whispered Trisha Walden, who was sitting next to him. She had been his best friend since Training started. Most of the other boys made fun of him for being friends with a girl, but Finnick liked Trisha. She wasn't outwardly aggressive like the other girls in Training, just quietly strong. Finnick liked to think he was the same way, so their friendship came easily and naturally.

Finnick nodded, even though he wasn't. Myron was strong, capable, the best District Four had seen in decades. But what if someone else was stronger? What if the Tributes from District One were the best _they'd_ seen in decades? Ever since their dad died, Myron had been obsessed with becoming a Victor. They'd been struggling – not like those in the poorer districts, but they were definitely poor by District Four standards. Myron was going to win the Games and change that. But if he didn't win…

He was gripped by horror then. Myron couldn't not win. Because the world couldn't exist without Myron. Myron had to win. He had to. His family relied on him, needed him, and couldn't survive without him. Couldn't _breathe_ without him. He was fighting to get back to his family, so he would win.

But there would be twenty-three other Tributes fighting to get back to their families.

The girl's name was called and nobody volunteered. No one else in District Four stood a chance against Myron, to go as his District partner would be a death-sentence. The girl who walked onstage seemed about fifteen and Finnick thought he'd seen her at the Training School. At least she'd probably last the first day.

Then the boy's name was called.

Finnick recognized his name. He wasn't in Training, but he was two years ahead of Finnick in school. Twelve. He was twelve.

Now was the time for Myron to say something something. Finnick should have heard Myron's voice calling out: _I volunteer!_

But the words never came.

Myron did not volunteer. Instead he turned away as the boy was lead toward his death.

In the entire time Finnick had watched the Reaping, District Four always had at least one volunteer. People wanted the chance at honor, at a better life. But no one was prepared this year. Myron was going to volunteer. That was the end of it.

The Games that year were torture. Their entire District watched the little boy be paraded around the Capitol, dressed up in fancy suits and then stabbed through the gut at the Cornucopia. The girl lasted a little longer, making an alliance with the Careers before she fell off a cliff on Day five. The entire time, Myron didn't look away from the screen. He watched as the girl from nine won and kept shaking his head and muttering.

"I could have beaten her. I could have beaten her. I could have beaten her…"

Once the Games ended and school resumed, Finnick didn't want to go back. He was sick to his stomach at the thought of the whispers and jeers. But he had to go, now more than ever.

It was just as bad as he imagined. People stared and pointed. A crying girl shoved him down and told him it was _his_ fault her brother her dead. No, it was his brother's fault, but no one saw him as an individual person from Myron. He was Myron's little brother, clinging on to him like a Remora to a Shark.

The shark was gone now and Finnick had no clue how to survive without him.

His 'friends' ambushed him at lunch and dragged him out back where all 'secret' fights took place. Only they were not secret because all the teachers knew yet did nothing to stop it. They were training children to kill one another. They'd be fools not to let them practice.

He was bleeding and his leg hurt like somebody grabbed it and twisted it way too far. The left side of his face felt numb as blood dripped down into his eye and Finnick knew he definitely didn't look cute now. Other kids gathered to see the fight – which was more of a beat-down – and he could see Trish clenching her fists tightly.

"You're just cowards, you and your brother!" Yarvis taunted him, kicking him in the back.

Finnick coughed and rolled over. Everything hurt like hell but he managed to force a smirk onto his face. "I'm sorry, it's three against one so who's the coward here?"

The other two backed up and Yarvis snarled. "I bet you were happy he didn't volunteer, weren't you? You probably asked him not to! Poor little baby Finnie, didn't want to be left alone after Daddy died-"

Myron always talked about how when he fought, he lost himself. That he forgot everything, what he'd had for breakfast, his grade on his history quiz, even that Dad was dead. His mind honed in on every movement his opponent made, exactly where he had to grab, slash or stab to disable them. Movement, muscles and the sound of bones cracking were the only things that mattered. Finnick asked him where the strength came from and Myron explained that it was anger. "I'm always angry," He told Finnick one day when they were out on _Calypso_ , the boat Dad's former crew and Myron's current crew used _._ "I'm angry that Dad's dead, I'm angry he left us poor. But you can't fish angry. You can't be in school angry. You can only fight angry."

As Finnick's fist connected with Yarvis's jaw, he understood. 

* * *

 

The Odair name may have been tarnished, but after the Games their wealth began to rise. Their mom no longer had to pay for Myron's training and Myron threw himself into his fishing. They still couldn't buy fancy things, but sometimes there was left over money for treats. Whenever his mother gave him a few coins to pick out a sweet from the market, Finnick always chose sugar-cubes. The lady at the stall warned him they would rot his teeth out, but Finnick waved her off with a bright smile.

He was starting to figure out that he could get away with a lot if he simply smiled. Even more if that smile was accompanied with a good joke. Unlike the other boys he never got into trouble with his Trainers. He would just frown with his lips pushed out ever so slightly, tilt his eyebrows and make his eyes as big as possible. Trish liked to call it his "Puppy-dog face" but even she wasn't immune. He would crack a joke that was out of line and she would turn away and ignore him, because she knew if she caught a glimpse of his face she would melt. The teasing about the two of them grew worse from his other friends. And though he always waved it off and said they were just old friends, sometimes he did wonder how her lips might feel against his. She was the daughter of a politician and every part of her was smooth: he was a fisherman's boy who was chapped from a life at sea. In the end these were just musings and Finnick had no time to waste on fantasies.

Because Finnick was going to volunteer for the Games.

That had become his goal, his mantra since his fight with his former friends. He would prove that he was brave, braver than his brother. This was no longer about money. This was about pride.

He didn't tell anyone. He simply practiced until his body hurt, did extra exercises outside of Training like Myron used to. By the time he was five years into Training, no one in his age group wanted to fight him. When Myron was fourteen no one in the entire school wanted to fight him, but Finnick couldn't compare himself to his brother anymore. Because that would lead to inevitable questions, questions he couldn't bring himself to ask.

The night before Finnick's third Reaping, Myron came into his room. He had shaven his beard for the Reaping, but there was no way to shave off the beer-belly he'd accumulated in the last four years. When he sat down on Finnick's bed, the springs squeaked loudly.

"Are you going to volunteer?"

His voice was gruff and harsh from lack of use. Finnick looked up on him in surprise.

"Of course not." Only the craziest Tributes volunteered young. The smart ones waited until they were older, bigger and stronger.

"Not this year, you mean." Myron corrected him. "But you're going to, aren't you?"

Finnick looked down at his sock-covered feet. "I don't see how that's your business." He meant for it to come off sharp and strong, but he just sounded whinny and petulant.

"Finn, do you know why I didn't volunteer?" Finnick shook his head. He didn't want to hear this, but something inside him said that he needed to. Myron sighed deeply. "I re-watched some of the Games the night before. And I watched the Victory Tours and the Recaps and I realized something."

Finnick looked up from his feet. "What?" He whispered.

"That the happy lives Victors live…it's not real, Finnick. They get the money and the fame but they're all _broken_. The smiles they put on afterward are fake, trying to mask the horror of what they've seen and done. The only ones who even seem slightly okay with it are the most ruthless and horrible Victors: the killing machines. And I realized I couldn't do it." He breathed in heavily. "And if I can't, you definitely can't Finn."

All of a sudden Finnick felt defensive. He stood up and towered over Myron from all his height of five foot six. "What's that supposed to mean?" He demanded. "You think I'm not as good as you? I might not be as big and as strong, but I work harder than you _ever_ did and I'm braver than you _ever_ were."

He expected Myron to yell back, to fight and channel the anger that had been dwelling inside of him for four years. Instead, Myron gave him a sad smile. "I know that. But you're also _better_ than I ever was, or ever will be. You've always been a sweet kid, and I don't want them to take that away from you."

Finnick thought of beating Yarvis's face in. "I'm not that good."

"Do you remember when Millie died?" Finnick nodded, because of course he did. Millie had been their dog and his best friend in the world up until he was six. That was when she became sick and stopped being able to run around or even move anymore. Their dad came home with a syringe and told them that it was medicine so that Millie wouldn't be in any pain anymore. It was medicine that would send her to heaven. "You were just a little kid and even though you didn't know anything about death you were so scared of it. And yet you were adamant about staying with her and holding her until she stopped breathing. Because as scared as you were, you said that Millie had to be even more scared and she would need someone to hold her until the pain was gone." Myron's voice was choked up and Finnick was shocked to hear him crying. "You're _good,_ Finn. Don't let anyone tell you anything else."

Looking back on that moment, Finnick had to wonder if Myron was psychic, because those were exactly the words he would cling to for the next ten years of his life.

* * *

The Reaping was always filled with nervous anticipation, but Finnick wasn't scared. There were older boys who were much more prepared, ones who would leap at the opportunity to be a Tribute. He wondered if he would be one of them in a few more years. Yesterday, he would have known the answer right away. After Myron's talk, he wasn't so sure.

The girl Tribute was called and Finnick hardly even heard the name before a loud voice declared, "I volunteer!" It was Yvonne Ramsey, of the toughest and strongest girls in District Four. She strode up to the front triumphantly, sneering at one of the other girls she had beaten out.

The boys were next. Finnick felt that familiar shiver down his spine he had gotten the past two Reapings. But it was silly because even if his name were called, someone would volunteer.

"Finnick Odair!" Dora Hensburry announced. Momentary panic seized him. _It's okay, it's okay_ , he tried to calm himself. _Someone else will volunteer. Someone always volunteers._

But there was silence.

In a moment of horror, Finnick realized that it was the same sort of silence that accompanied Myron's last Reaping. No one was going to volunteer.

"Finnick Odair!" Shrilled Dora and he wanted to throw up at the sound. "Finnick, where are you?" She teased in a singsong voice. Nobody laughed, but Finnick felt himself shoved forward from behind.

He walked to the front and looked out at his district. Darla was going on about odds and glory and all that nonsense, and Yvonne was eyeing him like a piece of meat, but none of that registered with him.

He was too busy staring out at the faces of his district, filled with horror at the realization that they'd purposefully, vindictively, betrayed him. 

* * *

He and Yvonne sat silently on the train. She was rolling a butter-knife between her fingers and he was certain she was strategizing. She hadn't said anything to him about an alliance yet which meant she thought he was not worth allying with.

Sadly, it was true. Finnick couldn't remember the last time anyone under sixteen won the Games.

The compartment door opened and Finnick jerked up. Two people walked into the room. The first was Bruce Kwalski, whose hand-to-hand combat and spear throwing skills made him a sought-after Mentor. The other…

Finnick's face turned red as he recognized the other Victor. It was the woman who caught him eating her strawberries.

"Welcome Tributes." Bruce began pompously. "My name is Bruce, this is Mags, and we will be your mentors."

 _Mags_ , Finnick stored away for future use. He glanced at her, once again wondering if she remembered him.

Once again, she winked.

For some odd reason, this made him feel better.

"Now, do you two want separate training or combined training?" Before Bruce could fully get the words out of his mouth, Yvonne answered.

"Separate." She spared Finnick a disdainful glance and he met her gaze evenly. He may have been young and inexperienced, but if she came across him in the arena she'd be surprised to learn he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Bruce nodded, like he was expecting this all along. He probably was. "Right then, we'll split up the mentoring. Finnick, you'll be working with me. Yvonne-"

"Are you serious?" Yvonne blurted out, looking at Mags in disbelief. " _You're_ going to train the kid and I get stuck with the old lady? I thought you wanted one of your Tributes to _win_?"

Finnick expected Mags to say something to this, but she just gave Yvonne an amused smile. Bruce, on the other hand, was irritated. "You'd do well to remember you're talking to a Victor," He told her, though Finnick could tell his defense was slightly forced, as if he agreed with Yvonne deep down. "Show some respect."

Yvonne backtracked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be disrespectful, but this is my life on the line here. And I just think with my strength and abilities I would be more suited to pair up with you, Bruce. It would be the best combination and our District's best chance of bringing home a Victor."

"Well, our job as mentors is to make sure everyone deserves a fighting chance." Bruce said awkwardly. "So Mags can help you with survival, and I can help Finnick with his strength."

He didn't have to say that Finnick would need it. Aside from Mags, he was the smallest one in the room.

Finnick found his voice. "Well, I don't care what mentor I get. I'll just win by blinding my opponents with my dazzling good looks and charming smile." He gave them the biggest, cheekiest grin he could.

There was an odd sound and everyone turned to see Mags laughing. "I'll take the boy." She told Bruce, waving him off like he was a fly. "You can have the girl."

Yvonne smirked in triumph, but something about Mags's gaze told Finnick he hadn't made a mistake.

* * *

 

Finnick loved many things. He loved the ocean first, his family second, then possibly sweets, and laughter and friendship. But what he loved above all else was being proven right.

Mags was an extraordinary wealth of information. She may have won the Games over fifty years before, but she had mentored nearly a third of them since. She went over the best strategies for every different kind of arena: how to get water if it was a desert, what plants to avoid if it was a jungle, and not to trust any sort of water without testing it first. They played memory games with different food sources and he learned that oftentimes the difference between what was nutritious and what was deadly was a simple as a slightly smaller leaf.

She also was very clear with him from the beginning: his fighting skills were good, but not enough for him to win.

"Sponsors." She told him on the first night. "You need sponsors and you can get them. You are very friendly and very pretty." He chuckled at that. Normally such a comment would have made him feel uncomfortable, but she flicked him on the nose instead of pinching his cheeks so he found he was more than okay with her teasing. "You are also young, so I think we should portray you as a charming young fisherman's boy. Be fun, likeable, and funny."

"So what you're saying is be myself?" Finnick teased her right back.

She ruffled his hair. "Yes, but be careful. You're happy to be here. You wanted to be selected. Being in the Capitol is a dream come true. Make the audience want nothing more than for you to get out of the arena so they can continue to be blessed with your presence. Make them love you."

She told him to be sweet and innocent. Playful – but innocent. So needless to say Mags was not happy when she saw that his and Yvonne's stylists put them in a mermaid and merman costume. Finnick didn't see the problem. During the summer he spent a considerable amount of time with his shirt off whether he was fishing or just playing around in the water, so he wasn't enormously modest. It was a good thing, because there was no room for self-consciousness with this outfit. The tail was skin-tight and trickled away into nothing but pasted-on scales over his hips ("To make it look more real!" His stylist had said enthusiastically) and his chest was completely bare. None of that bothered him. What _did_ bother him was how he could barely stand up in the costume, let alone move; his feet were so tightly bound together. He had to hop ridiculously while being supported on either side by Mags and his stylist.

All the while, Mags was spitting teeth at his stylist.

"Fourteen years old – just a boy!" She hissed. "And you have him wearing next to nothing."

"Both he and the female Tribute are very attractive, I was certain you would want to use that to your advantage!" His stylist fought back. "Sex sells in the Capitol, that's the best way to get sponsors."

Finnick felt his face go red. Sex? He didn't know anything about sex, other than tales of fumbles in secret caves by the shore his brother had shared. There had been a pregnancy scare with one of Myron's girlfriends and – after beating Myron with a spoon – their mother turned on Finnick and made him swear to never so much as touch a girl unless he was prepared to support her. Finnick, who had been nine, promised readily. He'd wait until he was fully-grown and in love.

Therefore it was something that was probably never going to happen.

_Poor little Finnie, died without ever being kissed._

Mags was shaking and furious, he could tell in the way she was holding his arm strongly – not harshly, or painfully, just strongly to assert her presence. "It sells? The last time I checked, it was illegal to sell a fourteen year old boy."

The stylist gaped at her. "I don't mean – it's an expression! You've been a mentor for years, you know what I'm saying."

Mags sighed long and heavy. Gently she reached out and turned Finnick's face toward her. He was confused and more than a little frightened, yet somehow her touch brought him comfort. "We're going to have to change strategies." She told him heavily. "You can't act innocent in that get-up, you'll look like a scared little boy. You have to milk it."

"Sell it." Piped in the stylist.

Mags glared at him. "Fine, sell it. Don't let them see that you're uncomfortable, act unashamed. We'll talk more afterward."

She helped him into the chariot. Yvonne was standing there, next-to naked as well, but she held herself up proudly. Sex was something she understood: she was eighteen and worldly. She turned to him and laughed.

"You look like a fish out of water, shark bait."

He straightened up and willed himself to stop shaking. This was the first time she had bothered to acknowledge him. Now she was trying to intimidate him because she felt threatened. He saw her eyes sliding up and down his figure. In a rush of certainty, Finnick knew she was not only checking him out as competition.

_Sell it._

Finnick turned and gave Yvonne one of his cheeky grins that always made Trish laugh. "Only if you're the shark, darling."

Yvonne's face was shocked when the chariot exited the Training Center. She quickly transformed it into a dark, sexy pout and waved at the crowd, flipping her hair.

Finnick watched her for a moment, before turning to his own side.

_Sell it._

Amongst the crowd he spied a woman leaning forward, trying to see. He locked eyes with her and deliberately blew a kiss at her. Several other people laughed and squealed, pointing excitedly at him. He gave the crowd a wave next, accompanied by his brightest, biggest smile. Then he started comically flexing his arm muscles, the way that he used to imitate Myron when he was trying to impress a girl.

The crowd was screaming for him, and he thought he could distantly hear them shouting, "Four, Four, Four!"

When their chariot arrived back to the Training Center, Mags took his arm, shaking her head.

* * *

 

Finnick was all anyone could talk about in the Capitol before the Games. Within minutes of his little show on the chariot, everyone was calling him a "heart-breaker," "God of the sea," and "The most beautiful boy in Panem." There was no speculation about the other Tributes, only Finnick. Although he was worried this would draw a lot of negative attention onto him from the others, they laughed and dismissed him. Yvonne told the other Careers from Districts One and Two that he was no real threat, just a baby Career who was Reaped before he was close to finishing Training. That was fine with Finnick, because he knew if he joined an alliance, they would take all of sponsor gifts and kill him when his back was turned. For the first time since he was Reaped, Finnick believed he had a real chance at winning.

He'd thought that Mags would be happy that he was getting the kind of attention that would surely lead to sponsors, but she kept muttering things like 'exploitation' and 'child pornography.' Which, in his opinion, was taking things a bit too far. Sure it was weird to have strangers talk about his body and speculate about his sex life on national television – if only they knew the truth! – but it wasn't like they were making him take naked pictures or anything equally disturbing.

The other Tributes thought he was a joke and the Capitol was in love with him. As far as Finnick was concerned, that was the perfect recipe for winning the Games. He did not understand why Mags didn't agree.

And he so wanted her to. He wished she would laugh and chat with him like they did the first night, but she just worried and pursed her lips and helped him practice making nets out of tree bark she found somewhere. Yvonne spent her entire time as far away from Finnick as possible, training with Bruce until her fingers bled.

His stylist, emboldened by the public's reaction to Finnick, gave him a form-fitting suit with no shirt beneath it for his interview. The strange man gushed on and on about how fabulous he looked, but all Finnick could think was that suits look absolutely ridiculous without shirts.

The Capitol didn't seem to agree – yes, he'd starting to refer to them as a single entity for he'd found that for all their diversity they were all the same – and it roared with approval when he entered. People, men and women, were taking pictures and standing up to get a better look and shouting, "I love you Finnick!"

Suddenly Finnick didn't think Mags was wrong about this being exploitation.

He shot the crowd his best grin and heard a few squeals. Weird. He couldn't imagine being so infatuated with someone that he squealed when they so much as smiled. Brushing away these unnerving thoughts he sat down in the chair across from Caesar Flickerman, who proceeded to ask him absolutely no questions about the Games. Instead it was all about his sex life.

Finnick didn't have a sex life.

So he lied.

He told stories that were his brother's, half-baked stories his friends had made up, things he'd heard whispered in the hall. All the while he skirted very carefully away from details, covering up his inexperience with winks and cheeky comments.

"So Finnick, my boy," Caesar whispered conspiratorially, shooting the audience grins. Finnick was trying very hard not to show that he was counting down the clock until the interview was over. He could just imagine his mom shaking down his brother, demanding to know if it was true, if her baby boy had done all those things. Most Victors probably got a hug from their mother when they came home, while he was likely going to get a slap if he ever returned. "May I ask who the lucky lady is who…first was speared by your trident?"

The crowd gasped with laughter and Finnick forced himself not to go red. _Sell it, sell it, sell it._ He grinned at Caesar slyly. "Oh Caesar, you know I don't kiss and tell."

The audience burst into laughter again again and Caesar chuckled with them. "Oh come now, Finnick, I'm not asking for details. Just one little name. Whoever the lucky lady is," Finnick noticed this was the second time he used lucky lady in less than fifteen seconds, "I'm sure she wouldn't mind the whole world knowing she was the first one to sleep with _the_ Finnick Odair." He couldn't help noticing that his name had become like a brand name.

The clock was winding down and he couldn't leave the crowd disappointed. This was the last moment that would ensure sponsors for the Games, his only chance of survival. In retrospect, he should have said he couldn't remember, or even made up a name. He should have said anything but what came out of his mouth.

"Trisha Walden."

The crowd gasped and giggled and the buzzer rang, but Finnick doesn't hear any of it. He can just see Trisha gaping at the screen in betrayal while her parents screamed at her. And in that moment he knew that if he did make it out of the Games, it would be without a best friend.

* * *

 

The night before the Games was pure horror. Finnick knew he had to sleep but he couldn't close his eyes. He kept seeing the other Tributes ripping each other apart with their bare hands before turning on him, madness in their eyes. For a moment he drifted off but was startled back awake by the sound of his door opening.

Instinctively, he grabbed the remote control for his window and held it back, ready to strike.

There was a laugh. "Is that what you're going to use in the arena?"

Yvonne. Finnick didn't drop the remote, though his stance relaxed a bit. "There weren't any knives readily available." With good reason too: when Tributes killed themselves before the Games even started, it made the Games less exciting.

She laughed again. He pressed a button and the room flooded with light, making him feel slightly less vulnerable. "How are you doing, shark bait?"

"Fine." He replied steadily, keeping his eyes trained on her as she came closer. She wasn't going to kill him before the games started, was she? He knew they weren't going to be allies, she'd made that clear from the beginning, but she'd be insane to take him out now. "What do you want?"

Yvonne shrugged innocently. There was nothing innocent about her. "Oh, not much. Just a little company before we all march off to the arena tomorrow." She sits down on the bed next to him.

He narrowed his eyes. "You didn't seem to keen on my company before."

She looked at him through dark eyelashes. "I thought you were a little kid before. But you're not, are you?" Her hand touched his chest and even though he was wearing a shirt he could feel how cold her fingers were.

Finnick yanked away from her touch, feeling panicked. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Giving you something not even Trisha Walden could." Yvonne gripped him by his shoulders firmly. She was strong, maybe stronger than him. Finnick wasn't sure, because he was frozen still, trying to process her words.

She leaned forward and captured his lips harshly. Hers were soft and their contact on his may have been pleasant if she wasn't pushing her tongue past his lips and teeth, gripping his shoulders so tightly they bruised. Her hands inched closer to his neck and suddenly Finnick worried she may have been trying to murder him.

Because she would. She would try to murder him.

The thought made Finnick recoil. He threw her off with a shout and touched his lip. The was blood there, did she bite him? He didn't even know. "What the fuck?"

Yvonne took this turn of events in stride, rolling her eyes. "Thought you might like to have one last night of fun before you die. Too bad." She walked to the door and her gaze turned lethal. "Remember shark bait. I'm coming for you."

Finnick sat on the edge of his bed for several minutes, shaking. She hadn't really thought, she couldn't have actually…

 _Of course she did,_ sneered an ugly voice inside his head, _you just told the entire world you're a sex god. Of course she would think you'd want to sleep with her._

He crawled back under the covers and pressed his hand to his lips again. That was his first kiss.

Finnick didn't sleep the night before his Games.

He didn't sleep much during, either. Mags's last advice to him before he went to bed was, "Keep your eyes open." After his encounter with Yvonne, Finnick didn't think he could ever sleep again. Every time his eyes fluttered shut he now saw her choking him, sucking the life out of him with her kiss.

Mags managed to send him energy pills. They came with a warning to use sparingly. He followed those instructions until he woke up in the middle of the night with a shivering Tribute from Eight holding a knife over him. Finnick didn't even think: he grabbed the hand that was holding the knife and twisted until he heard bones break and she was forced to let go. Then he took the Tribute's own knife and stabbed her with it.

He moved camp that night. He wasn't sure if it was because that girl had proven it was unsafe, or to escape the scent of death.

He also downed the remaining energy pills with one of the bottles of water Mags had generously supplied. He didn't sleep again for the rest of the Games.

The cannons that rang out every day and the anthem that played at night made it clear: it was just Finnick and the other Careers now. He wondered if they'd turned on each other yet, or if their last task as a group would be to hunt him down. He knew it was time to turn proactive. Mags had been amazing, sending him an endless supply of food and water, as well as ointment when he burned himself from a forest fire. In all the years he'd watched the Games, no Tribute had ever been sent this many gifts. And Finnick knew there was no way the other Tributes were receiving the level of favoritism he was. Now was the time to face them, when he was well fed, full of energy and healthy. Before the energy pills ran out and he was left with nothing.

He knew Mags was right about his combat skills. Finnick was comfortable with just about every weapon, but the Careers were intimately familiar with every weapon. The only weapon he felt positive he could win with was a trident. There was probably one at the Cornucopia, he'd shown the Gamemakers some – not all – of his skills with the weapon, but the Careers were guarding the Cornucopia like always. There was no way to get to a trident until the end if he could move the final fight to the Cornucopia. Until then he would have to set some traps.

It was then that Finnick was glad for all the time Mags spent teaching him how to weave nets with materials other than twine. Once he learned how to strip the bark from trees in a long, strong line it was easy to make sturdy nets. During one of his expeditions he came across a valley of vines, so unnatural seeming it was almost like the Gamemakers had put it there on purpose.

Maybe they had.

He set up traps all around his camp and lit a fire. Finnick could almost imagine everyone gaping at their screens saying, "He lit a fire? Why would he light a fire?" And the other mentors would be laughing at Mags, telling her that her boy had gone insane: he could picture her small smile easily.

Yvonne came first. He wondered if she had broken away from the group or if she had wanted to kill him personally. Putting all personal feelings aside, he hoped it was the latter, because if she didn't return that meant her allies would follow.

And he could get out of that godforsaken arena.

"You camping, shark bait?" Her voice was more cautious than it ever had been when talking to him. She hadn't planned on him making it this far, she'd clearly underestimated him, underestimated his strategy. But she still seemed to have the upper hand with her long sword against his knife.

"Yeah." He replied lightly. "I was thinking we could sit on logs around the fire and swap stories. Got any good ones?"

She steps closer to him. "A few."

"I've got one. I killed a girl a few nights ago. I think she was thirteen." Finnick's voice wavered. "She was trying to kill me, but I…" He let his gaze drift away. "I'm not cut out for this. I shouldn't be here."

Millions of people were screaming at their television. Finnick could feel it.

Yvonne smirked. "I knew you were playing, Pretty Boy. In the end you're a coward just like your brother."

Finnick forced himself to sigh and hang his head. "I guess so."

His slight drop of guard was the only signal Yvonne needed to charge toward him. She sprung forward, sword swung back to slice him to pieces. Unfortunately for her, she was so caught up in her blood lust she didn't feel the net he'd hidden beneath the leaves.

The trap snapped up and she screamed because she was twisted into all sorts of unnatural positions and her own sword was sticking out of her back. Finnick calmly walked up and slit her carotid artery, just like they were both taught. He took the sword out of her back and cleaned it against a nearby tree. It wasn't a trident, but it was better than a knife.

He turned away from Yvonne and tried to settle the rising vomit in his throat. He has never felt so dirty, so unclean in his life before.

 _You're_ good, _Finn._

"No I'm not." He whispered, pressing his hands to his face. There were three more left: two from District One and one from District Two. From the sounds of nearby shouting, Yvonne was still allied with them. They were coming for him and they wouldn't fall for the same trick once. He couldn't run. There was no choice left but to fight. This would be the best place for it, since he knew where to step and they didn't, but that meant no trident. He looked at the sword uneasily in his hands. Honestly he'd felt more comfortable with a knife.

There was a shadow falling over him and he looked up suddenly, expecting a Tribute to jump out at him. But it wasn't a person: it was a long object, a long object with three prongs on the end. _A trident._

Finnick shook his head. This _had_ to be a side effect from those energy pills. There was no way Mags just read his mind. No way.

It continued to drift down and he could see that it was attached to a silver parachute. He can also that it was gold and gleaming. It floated down and he grasped it with his hand. The trident felt so natural, almost like an extension of his body and he nearly cried.

"Thank you!" He whispered, clutching it to his chest. "Thank you!"

This was the end of his Games. Mags must have spent all the rest of their sponsor money on that trident. He had eaten well, drank well and stayed healthy throughout the Games. He was in better shape than the other Tributes. He had traps all around him, protecting him. This was his final fight and Finnick knew he would win.

The fight was so electrifying and exciting to audiences that there was no need for a Gamemaker-caused disaster. Two Career boys and a girl fought against Finnick and one by one were trapped, maimed and killed. He stood in the middle of his trap-riddled camp, dripping with blood, trident clenched firmly in his hand, the Victor of the 65th Hunger Games.

When they pulled him up onto the hovercraft Mags immediately wrapped a blanket around him and he fell into her, shaking and sobbing.

"I'm not good, I'm not good, I'm not good, I'm not good." He whispered over and over again. All he wanted to do was sleep, curl up in Mags's arms and sleep for days. Maybe when he woke up the blood would be gone and the tightness in his chest would be gone and the desire to tear out his own throat would be gone.

Or maybe all of this would have never happened.

Mags wrapped her arms around him and she was sturdy and strong for such a little woman. "Yes you are, sweetie." She whispered to him. "You are." Her voice dropped lower until only she was so quiet only he can hear her. " _They're_ the ones who are bad, not you. _They_ should be sorry."

Finnick was shaking and drifting in between hysteria and sleep. He doesn't understand. Who's bad? The other Tributes? No, you can't blame them, they're dead.

_I killed them._

_I'm bad._

* * *

 

Finnick spent the next few days in the hospital, sleeping. Apparently the warnings about not taking too many energy pills were very serious and he nearly killed himself. Luckily the Games ended just in time and they were able to save him.

Luckily.

Right.

He tried hard not to dwell on the fact that he was not yet fifteen and already wished he were dead.

Mags visited him but he pretended to be asleep even as she stroked her wrinkly fingers through his curls. He knew it wasn't fair, but he was angry with her. Angry for keeping him alive, angry for not telling him he would feel this way. Angry because for someone who seems so good and honest, why didn't she feel this way? How did the other Victors smile at their cheering fans, waving with hands that slid knives across other children's throats? Why was he the only one who was different, the only one who can't be happy?

He was so depressed he couldn't even stand up on his own, so they delayed his Recap. A day after he was supposed to interview with Caesar, he had a visitor in the hospital.

"Your fans are disappointed with the delay." He heard behind him. Finnick recognized the voice from somewhere and in the back of his mind he knew it was an important voice. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Screw them." Finnick mumbled into his pillow. He knew he should probably turn over but he couldn't summon the energy.

There were footsteps going around the bed and then President Snow's face appeared in front of him. Finnick wasn't even shocked. "Your fans are the only reason you are alive today, Mr. Odair." He informed Finnick softly. "They expect to see you onstage, thanking them for their generosity." Snow leaned in close then. Finnick thought he smelled blood. "They were told that you were still recovering from your energy pill overdose, but you would be back to your old self in no time. Otherwise, there would be consequences. Is that clear, Mr. Odair?"

 _Consequences._ The word swam in behind Finnick's eyelids and he wondered what it meant. He already wanted to die; they could go ahead and kill him if they wished. But no, they couldn't because the Capitol loved him, for some reason. What other kind of consequences could Snow mean?

He remembered his mother and Myron back at home, and Trish, whom he'd foolishly singled out by name. Suddenly he found that he didn't want to find out what Snow meant.

Instead he asked another question. "Why do you care?" It was more of a plea than a question. They'd already taken his goodness from him. Why couldn't they just let him suffer and die in peace?

Snow half smiled at him. It wasn't a pleasant sight. "Did you know that there is a fish in the sea that survives by attaching itself to a shark? It eats the parasites off of the shark and in return the shark does not have to worry about the parasites. It is called–"

"A Remora." Finnick whispered.

Snow looked pleased and Finnick wasn't sure if it was because Finnick had proved he had a brain, or because he was coherent enough to follow the conversation. "Indeed. They have a symbiotic relationship. One other such relationship is that between a Victor and the Capitol. The Capitol provides food, wealth and protection while the Victor takes care of the parasites. That is, the people of the Panem." His smile dropped. "Your job is to keep the people of Panem happy. Your participation in the Games was an honor, your life after winning could not be happier. Are we clear?"

Finnick's mind suddenly flashed to the conversation he had with Myron the night before he was Reaped: _The happy lives Victors live…it's not real, Finnick._ Suddenly he was frozen because he too could see beyond the smiles and waves of all the Victors. He wasn't different from them at all. He was exactly the same.

"We're clear."

They pumped him full of anti-depressents and he went on stage that night, all smiles and winks and jokes. He loved everybody who helped him so much. He was happy to be alive. He was thrilled to stand before them once again and soak up all their attention.

Throughout the whole Recap, Interview and Crowning process, Finnick's charming grin only faltered once. They went through all of his kills – seven, not five, two of the Tributes he attacked at the Cornucopia died from the wounds he inflicted – and he watched the little girl from District Eight sneak into his camp. He saw her clutching her knife closely in self-defense, steering clear of his sleeping form as if he were a slumbering monster. She tripped over his pack and fell toward him. Seconds later, she was dead.

Once he was backstage and no one was watching, he ducked behind a potted plant and threw up.

* * *

 

When Finnick left the Capitol, there were hundreds of people to see him off. He stood at the window and smiled. He waved. He saw his hand slashing Yvonne's throat.

Dora was bubbling with excitement when she came into the compartment where Finnick, Mags and Bruce were sitting, a bottle of champagne and four glasses in her hands. She handed each of them a glass.

"To our new Victor, Finnick Odair!" She gushed, pouring champagne into Mags and Bruce's glasses. Finnick held out his glass and Dora reached to pour some into it, but Mags blocked her with her hand.

"Water." She ordered clearly. There was a glass container of water on the coffee table and she poured a fair amount of it into Finnick's glass. He took it without protest.

Dora lifted her own glass and clinked it with all of theirs. "Oh this is so exciting, I've never had a Victor before. And such a spectacular one too! They may even promote me."

Finnick certainly hoped so. He hoped she left District Four and never came back. She wasn't terribly unpleasant by Capitol standards, but every time he looked at her he heard her calling him up toward the stage.

Dora chatted to them for a while about nonsensical things and the Victor's Tour, which Finnick did not want to think about. That was six months away. He had six months of freedom before life in front of the cameras again. His stony glare, accompanied with Mags and Bruce's silence, must have caught Dora's attention because she excused herself politely and left the compartment.

Bruce looked between Mags and Finnick. "Congratulations on your win." There was a trace of bitterness in his voice: it may have been because he regretted switching to the losing side, or maybe he truly became fond of Yvonne. Either way, there was no discerning past his hardened face. He too exited the compartment, leaving Mags and Finnick alone for the first time since before the Games.

He turned to her. "I'm sorry I ignored you at the hospital." It was not the neglect he felt terribly about, but the judgment. He judged her as cruel, unfeeling and somehow less of a person than he, when she was just so much better at adjusting.

Somehow she understood him. "This pain that you feel is what makes you good. You were strong in the arena and it is natural you would hurt so badly after. But now you need to be strong again." She cupped his chin and smiled sadly at him. "The Capitol wants to see you as you were before the games. They don't want to see you hurting from what they made you do. It would make people uncomfortable, make them question the Games. And you can't be the one to cause that." Something about the seriousness in her gaze made Finnick nod fervently. "No matter what you are feeling, always put on a smile for the cameras. Eventually the spotlight will turn away from you and you will be able to live a relatively normal life."

"How long?" Finnick asked her, as he would ask his mother how much longer he had to sit in the corner for time out. "How long until they leave me alone?"

Mags pulled him toward her and once again Finnick felt himself melting into her, like she was a buoy holding him to the shore during a storm. "I'm afraid I don't know." She whispered. "But you can _always_ be yourself with me. Whatever you're feeling, you can tell me."

He thanked her, though her offer felt a tad bit unnecessary. He still had his real mother, after all, and Myron. It felt strange to think of Myron and the long-boiling jealousy and resentment he'd harbored toward his brother. Finnick's gut clenched as he wondered how their relationship would change now. His mind hearkened back to his thoughts during the first interview and wondered if his mother actually would slap him. And Trisha…shit, Trisha. That had been such a mistake. He could have said any name – even just a first name! Her name had just slipped past his lips, probably because she was the only girl he'd ever thought about kissing.

That was never going to happen now. For the rest of the train ride, Finnick imagined a fantasy world where he hadn't killed anyone, yet was still the Victor. He'd never lied to the cameras about his sexual experiences and when he came home his mother gave him a big hug and kissed his forehead. His eyes found Trisha's in the crowd and he pushed straight through the crowd until they were face to face. And he pulled her close and kissed her, but the kiss was sweet and gentle. There was no tongue pushing or lip biting: just smooth, gentle contact. They both blushed when he pulled away because that was their first kiss, together and apart. And even though they were surrounded by tons of people and there was whooping and catcalling, Finnick didn't mind because his first kiss was with someone he cared about, or at the very least didn't want to kill him.

That would have been nice.

He was jarred back to reality by the train's halt. Mags took his arm and led him off the train. "Smile," She whispered to him. As soon as the fresh, salty air hits his face, Finnick found he doesn't have to fake it. The smile was stretching across his face of his own volition, so much so that he might cry.

 _Keep it together,_ he told himself, noticing the camera to his left. They wanted to film his triumphant return – not something typically done, but the Capitol kept demanding to know more, see more, have more of him. Finnick reminded himself that it was worth it, to see his family again. Even if his mother did slap him in the face. Though hopefully she would know better than to do that on camera…

"Finnick!" Her voice called over above the crowd. She was at the front with Myron, where Peacekeepers were keeping the crowd at bay. At first look it seemed as if they were doing this as a courtesy to the Odairs, but Finnick had an inkling the Peacekeepers were there to ensure no one interfered with the cameras filming his touching homecoming.

But her eyes were wide and weeping with joy and suddenly it didn't matter that there were cameras and stupid people in the Capitol were sipping on stupid frothy drinks while they watched this. All that mattered was getting to her as quickly as possible. Physically he was still weak from his overdose of energy pills and whatever cocktail of drugs they dosed him with before the Recap, but he made his way toward his mother without faltering and stopped before her.

"Hi mom," He whispered, searching for acceptance in her face, knowing everything she must have seen. He needed her to still love him, to see that he was still the same person deep down he had always been.

His mother grabbed tightly into a hug, squeezing the breath out of him. He heard a chorus of "Awes" from the camera crew. They didn't matter though. His mother was digging her palms into his back fiercely, like she was afraid if she didn't hold him close enough they would rip him away from her. He buried his face in her hair, not wanting her to know that this was a legitimate fear.

At long last they broke away. Myron was standing behind their mother. Finnick noticed that his face was pale, lacking its sun-kissed tan and he had the look of a man who had lost too much weight too quickly. He was looking intently into Finnick's eyes, asking a silent question.

_Are you broken?_

Finnick stepped forward and crushed his brother into a hug nearly equaling his mother with his ferventness. The distance between their faces had grown shorter and Finnick realized he had grown just in the last month. The thought that he'd grown and he hadn't been home for his mother to mark it on the kitchen door made him feel just a little more lost.

He stood on his toes slightly because he still had to do that to reach Myron's ear. "I'm still good." He whispered. And remarkably, Finnick believed it.


	2. There's no turning back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where the archive warnings really kick in. Please DO NOT READ THIS if you cannot handle depictions of non-consensual sex. And please do not read more of this story. It only gets worse - though not gratuitous. My only intention is to accurately and respectfully portray the trauma Finnick went through during his time as a Victor.

The entire time Finnick was in the arena, all he wanted was to go back home where life would be entirely the same. He should have known that could never happen.

They moved to Victor's Village. His mother painstakingly packed everything they own and tried to make their new home as comfortable as their old one. It was nicer, certainly and it had all those beautiful things Finnick once saw in the windows. But it was further away from the sea and the fish markets, because the Capitol saw those things as wretched and smelly. And they probably were: Finnick was sure it was an acquired smell, but it was comfortable and familiar to him. In his darker moments, he found himself praying that small comfort was the last thing the Capitol would take from him.

He knew there would be more sacrifices, much bigger ones. Because the money that poured in was so inconceivably enormous, it couldn't all be for three people. He asked Mags offhandedly if there was some sort of charity he could give it to. Mags actually paused in her knitting and told him adamantly, " _No."_ Victors were there to demonstrate the generosity the Capitol could provide. They were _not_ meant to be another source of generosity the Districts could turn to when times were toughest.

That was the general lesson he seemed to be learning. The Capitol has absolute power. Never do anything that even remotely looks like you are trying to take some of that power for yourself.

So Finnick took his money and spent it on the only expensive thing he could ever imagine purchasing: a boat. They named her _Sirena_ and it became tradition for Myron and Finnick to spend all day with her, talking, fishing – they practice catch and release fishing now, as they have no need for the money and it would be seen as poor sport to the other fisherman who needed the catch to survive – and sometimes just gazing up at the sky, saying nothing and doing nothing at all.

Laziness overtook Finnick and he wished he needed the catch to survive as well. It would give him some sort of purpose, a meaning to life other than eating, drifting around on _Sirena_ and frightening his family half to death every time he screamed himself awake. Once he headed to the docks looking just to lend an extra hand, free of charge, something Myron did when he was bored. They accepted Myron, joking with him about the lap of luxury but still respecting him when they saw he was as hard working as ever. Their conversation grew silent when Finnick approached and he found himself just nodding at them and continuing on his way, as if that had been his plan all along.

Most people were quite friendly to him, though. They'd stop him for conversation and point him out among crowds. _What was the Capitol like_ , they'd say. And, _You were so young and brave._ They would talk for a bit before moving along. Everyone wanted to say they knew him, but no one actually wanted to get to know him. Finnick realized the more people he knew, the lonelier he was.

His mother broached the subject of school three months after his return and Finnick replied with a quick and solid, "No." He wouldn't be allowed to return to Training – not that he wished to learn anything else in the art of killing people – and he would absolutely not fit in at the regular school. When he lay awake that night staring at his ceiling, he realized there was nowhere he fit in anymore.

* * *

Through a combination of luck and remarkable evasion on both their parts, Finnick and Trish didn't see each other until a month before Finnick's Victory Tour. It was his birthday and after the small celebration at his house with his mother, Myron and Mags, he decided to take a walk on the shore like he always had on birthdays past. He walked barefoot on the sand, shoes dangling idly from one hand. Fifteen.

Finnick remembered the day of his father's fortieth birthday. It was the last one they celebrated with him. He'd bounded into the room excitedly at the crack of dawn, jumping onto the bed and yelling excitedly.

"Dad, wake up, it's your birthday! Wake up!" And then he'd zoomed over to Myron's room to wake him up before zooming back. To his enormous disappointment, his dad had still been stretching to get out of bed, while his mother was already padding downstairs in her slippers.

"Dad, why aren't you happy? It's your birthday!"

His dad had laughed and ruffled Finnick's curls affectionately. "I am happy, sea-biscuit. I'm so happy to be celebrating this with you!"

Finnick had pouted and tried to articulate into words what his little heart was feeling. "But you're not _excited_." He pointed out. "It's your birthday, you're a year older!"

His dad laughed again while pulling on his own slippers. "Kid, there comes a point in life where turning a year older stops being anything but a simple marker for the time you've spent on earth."

The tide crept over his toes and Finnick felt he had reached that point. He had reached it far, far earlier than his dad would have ever wanted him to. He was fifteen and he didn't care. Judging from his abysmally small party, hardly anyone else cared either.

Memories swirled in his mind like a whirlpool and he plucked one out at random. Last year, his mother had made a huge meal and all his friends had been there. Despite Myron and the mess he'd made of their reputation, Finnick always had many friends. When old ones fell away he simply found new ones. They seemed drawn to him. He'd always thought it was because he was fun to be around. Maybe they just became friends with him because he was good looking, but left when they got to know the real him.

That was a dark thought.

He'd had real friends, Finnick reminded himself sternly. The ones who always found his jokes funny, no matter how out of line they may have been. The ones who never blamed him for what Myron did, and actually tried to help him understand why his brother made such a decision.

The ones like Trish.

And then, as if his thoughts pulled her toward him, she was walking the opposite direction on the shore that he is, heading straight for him. Finnick froze, wanting more than anything to run away. But she had seen him now and if she wasn't going to be a coward, then he would stop being one as well.

They both stopped walking when they were about a foot from each other. He opened his mouth to speak, before realizing he had no clue what to say.

_Sorry I made you sound like a whore on national television._

Thankfully, she spoke first before he could say anything stupid.

"Tell me they made you do it," She whispered, arms clenched around her chest. As soon as he comprehended her words, he felt relief. She understood. She understood that he was forced into those lies, that grand act. Trisha always knew him better than anyone else, even Myron.

Except she did know. She knew he wouldn't have behaved that way by choice, said the things that he did if no one was making him. That wasn't the question she was asking.

She wanted to know if anyone made him lie and tell the entire world they slept together. And as much as he wanted to say yes, he'd already burdened her with too many lies.

"No," He said instead, and watched her crumple on the inside.

She'd always been quietly strong though, so she just nodded and turned away. "Goodbye Finnick."

* * *

 "Does being in love hurt, Myron?"

It was the middle of the night and they were both lying on _Sirena's_ deck, staring at the stars. For hours the only sound had been the rocking of the waves, the creaking of the boat's wood and their own breaths.

Myron sat up on his elbows and looked bemusedly at his little brother. "Are you in love, Finnie?"

Finnick rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I'm way too young to love somebody." And even though his soul felt very old, he knew this to be true. After the Games it was like he was born again and had to go through childhood all over again. He had to learn to live and breathe and laugh on his own before he could even think about falling in love.

Myron chuckled. "So why did you ask the question?"

Finnick sighed and gazed at the sky. To him, the stars were so much more wonderful and bright than any of the Capitol's lights could ever be. "I think I liked someone – a girl," He added quickly as a preemptive measure to cut off any jokes Myron might have made, "And it didn't work out. It's painful, more painful than I thought it would be. And I only liked her." Now that he'd said it, it sounds pretty damn stupid hanging out in the air.

But Myron seems thoughtful. "Honestly? I've never been in love. I had something close to it once and that was painful – like trying to hold together cloth that keeps tearing between your fingers. That was unrequited love. Real love is…what Mom and Dad had, I suppose."

"That love hurts her everyday." Finnick replied.

"You're just seeing the aftermath of love," Myron told him. "Love lost is always painful. Love found may probably be the most beautiful thing in the world." He patted Finnick's arm. "One day you'll see it for yourself. I have every faith."

* * *

 By the time his Victory Tour came around, Finnick felt as recovered from his Games as he ever would be. The morning he left, his mother made pancakes and bought fancy imported maple syrup from District Seven. Finnick dove into the meal like it was the most exquisite than any Capitol feast. To him, it was.

"Finn, slow down." His mother scolded gently. "You'll choke yourself."

"That would be a story." Chortled Myron. He spread out his hands before him like he was framing a headline. "'Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games Dies While Eating Pancakes.'"

Finnick chuckled around his mouthful and replied, "What can I say? My stomach is my one true weakness."

As if summoned by his words, Mags walked into their kitchen. She'd come over in the middle of the night so many times to soothe Finnick down from his nightmares that she now had her own key. Finnick stood up to greet her and his eyes lit up at the basket in her hands.

"Are those strawberries?" He demanded to know. She nodded knowingly as she set the basket down.

"Something to commemorate our first meeting." She told him with a twinkle in her eye.

Unable to contain his affection for the feeble old woman, Finnick laughed, scooped her up in his arms and twirled her around gleefully. "Mags, you're a marvel." He set her back down gently and happily added a few strawberries to his pancakes. After taking a bite of the strawberry-pancake goodness he leaned back and sighed contentedly. "This is what heaven feels like." He closed his eyes. "I'm just going to drift off to Nirvana now, nobody wake me."

His mother rapped his forehead lightly with her knuckles. "As amusing as it is to watch you sit there with your mouth hanging open, don't you have to prepare for your Tour?"

Finnick smirked and gestured extravagantly to all of him. "Mom, look at me. I'm perfect. There's nothing to prepare." His words were made all the funnier by his sunburn, his sea-salt soaked hair, and the baggy sweatshirt he was sporting. He couldn't have looked further away from the Capitol Finnick Odair if he tried.

His prep team expressed their dismay as soon as they walked in the door. "But why?" They exclaimed, touching his sunburn and then jerking their hands back as if they too had been burned. "Why would you ruin such perfect bronze skin this way?"

Finnick tried to tell them that sunburns led to bronze skin, but they couldn't grasp the concept. They stripped away the sunburn, callouses and scars he accumulated during the last sixth months, before painting him over. The tan was too dark: even though District Four didn't have winter like most of the other Districts, they still have less sun during those months and everyone becomes a little paler. His skin looked fake and ridiculous, but his prep team assured him it would look fabulous on camera.

His stylist, whose name he finally learned to be Arnavi, had come up with all sorts of outfits that he called "Classic District Four." His wardrobe was full of sleeveless vests, fishnet undershirts and blue slacks. Finnick would have liked to see Arnavi's face if he learned that "Classic District Four" was the jeans and sweatshirt he was wearing earlier.

The cameras arrived and Finnick guided them through "The Life of Finnick Odair." He showed them his family's new home, _Sirena_ , and walked them through the marketplace where everyone stopped and waved at him.

"As you can see, I'm just as popular here as in the Capitol." He told the camera with a smile and a wink. They needn't know his only friends in the world were his family and Mags.

And it looked as if no one was going to find out, because the crowd that saw him off for his Victory Tour was even larger than the one that greeted him. He looked for Trisha among the faces even though he knew she wasn't there.

* * *

 They started the Tour by travelling all the way back to Twelve and working their way back from there. Finnick learned that he hated being in Districts poorer than his own, which was nearly all of them. They stared up at him with their grimy grubby faces, emaciated figures that seemed to radiate hunger. He felt grotesque up on his pedestal, hideously overstuffed. Even when he was poor, when he was stealing strawberries from Mags's garden, he had never starved. Even in the Hunger Games, he had never been hungry.

District Eight was the worst of all. The little girl he killed haunted his dreams every night after that visit. Her name was Alicia. She was a tiny thing, the only child of her grieving parents. He killed her needlessly and faked remorse over her death to kill another girl.

He woke up screaming in horror that night and broke down in Mags's arms

By the time they reached District Two Finnick had regained his composure. He was able to make it through his pre-written speeches and even tack a joke or two of his own on. The Tribute he killed from their District knew what he was signing up for. Finnick told himself he felt no remorse. He told himself the same in District One.

This time he was fully there for his interview with Caesar. And this time he kept the talk away from District Four and anyone there. Instead he expressed his delight at the finery of the Capitol and even managed to joke about his sweet tooth. Afterward he realized that something seen as innocently funny around his breakfast table took on another layer of meaning in the Capitol.

His biggest mistake occurred when Caesar asked him if he had any new 'exploits' to share with the audience. Finnick panicked. He didn't want a repeat of what happened with Trish and he'd had so much attention placed on him back home everyone would know immediately if he lied.

"Not really," He said instead, leaning back casually in the chair. "After the Capitol, everything back home seems so drab and boring, you know? It's my home so I have to love it, but the people and things here are far more exciting."

At the time it was a good strategy, a throwaway comment that let Caesar direct the conversation to how glorious the Capitol was – Caesar's favorite topic, probably because it was the safest. Later he would look back on that moment and wonder if things would be different had he not said that. Probably not, but Finnick loved to hang on to the possibility that one single moment could change his entire life, so if he ever was able to go back he'd know exactly which regrets to fix.

And that was certainly a regret, because that was the moment he changed from _Finnick Odair, the boy the Capitol loves,_ to _Finnick Odair, the boy who loves the Capitol back._

* * *

 Finnick imagined that for Mags, the next year was like trying to steer a boat that was intent on crashing into a cliff-face. Even though her mentorship was technically finished after his Victory Tour, she continued to stand beside him at events and accompanied him to the various publicity stunts in the Capitol Snow requested he appear in. She would clutch his arm tightly, steering him toward some people and away from others. It was a good thing she was there, because Finnick had the strong impression that the other Victors didn't like him all that much. To the other Careers he was a pampered Pretty Boy – to the poorer and more rebellious Victors, he was a Capitol Pet. The non-Career Victors like Mags so they tolerated him. Many times when he was hanging around them Finnick felt like a kid at the grown-up's table.

Mags couldn't keep him away from the Capitolites too much, though. Those strange wealthy people, who almost seemed a different race from the people of the District people, couldn't get enough of him and swarmed him everywhere he went. It was similar to the way everyone in District Four wanted to have a conversation with him, only the Capitolites were much more hands-on than his own people. They were also unbelievably shallow. Rather than talking about his actions they gushed over his looks. He was "gorgeous," "exquisite," "a masterpiece."

"Am I really that attractive?" Finnick asked Mags during a train ride back to District Four. He certainly didn't feel attractive at that moment: his clothes were itchy and stiff, and his fake-tan almost looked orange.

She gave him a strange look. "Are you fishing for a compliment?" She asked him wryly.

"No, not at all!" He laughed. "I just…the people in the Capitol are so strange and their sense of what's attractive seems way off to me. It usually seems based around artificial things, like skin tattoos and weirdly colored hair and what clothes they're wearing…" He didn't have to say that with him, they seemed to be more interested in what clothes he _wasn't_ wearing. Mags was well aware of that. "I just don't get what's so appealing about me to them."

Mags must have detected the honest confusion in his voice for she softened. "It is your physical appearance, yes. You are a naturally beautiful boy and they see that. They are like children who see something shiny and gravitate toward that." She gave him a gummy smile. "But you are much more than what they see. You are sweet and pure and above all _good._ "

"Am I though?" Finnick thought of Alicia.

She cupped his cheek. "I have mentored many Tributes in my time. Many of them became Victors. I have never cared for one the way I care for you. And I am a very good judge of character."

It _was_ clear that Mags cared a lot. She came over to his house all of the time. Myron and their mother became fond of her and they would all venture out into town together. Finnick was always pleased to escort Mags to the market, supporting her gallantly with his arm like she were a queen and he a knight tasked with aiding her. On one such day while Mags was trying to decide which bass filet to buy, Finnick caught Yarvis staring at them and slowly, deliberately winked at him. He smirked when Yarvis put his head down and scurried away.

_Old witch indeed._

The other Victors in District Four steered relatively clear of them. Finnick came to understand that though they respected her wisdom, most of them believed Mags to be senile and feeble. They thought she shouldn't be mentoring at all anymore. Considering that she had mentored quite of few of them, Finnick found their attitudes rather thankless and rude. So he asserted his loyalty by always seeking her company first and the other Victors understood the message: Finnick was with Mags, and the rest of them could screw themselves.

During the 66th Hunger Games, Finnick stayed home. He was only fifteen and there were better, older mentors than him. Mags stayed behind as well and watched the Games in the Odair house, her hand placed gently on his arm. Initially he thought she was babying him too much: that was before the Games began and the first cannon went off. Suddenly he was folded up into a fetal position, pressing his face into his knees firmly, whispering the mantra "I'm not good" repeatedly. When the room quieted down and the Tributes made their way off to separate camps, Finnick straightened to find Mags's hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, while Myron and his mother stared at him in slack-jawed horror.

Every time there was a confrontation between Tributes for the rest of the day, Mags had to squeeze his arm tightly to keep him centered in reality. On Day Two, she came over the morning with two ropes.

"Here," She handed him one and began twisting her own. "Show me the Killick hitch."

They spent the rest of the Games tying and untying knots. The process fascinated Finnick: there was something oddly beautiful about how easily a complicated knot would unravel when he tugged just the right loop. Afterward, he was entirely convinced his family thought he was off his rocker, but Myron actually began encouraging him to practice his knot tying whenever he would drift too far into his thoughts.

For his family understood that Finnick was fragile, just as Mags did.

Unlike Mags, they believed his worst nightmare was behind him.

* * *

 A week before he turned sixteen, Finnick received a special invitation. President Snow was throwing a party in his honor on the day he turned sixteen. His presence was demanded.

"It's okay Finnick," His mother told him, though she was clearly disappointed. "We'll just celebrate when you return. Then you'll have something to look forward to." She leaned into his ear and stage-whispered, "I'm baking a chocolate cake!"

"He's going to be so overstuffed with Capitol crap, he won't have room for any of our humble District Four cake." Ribbed Myron as he shouldered playfully past Finnick. "You spoiled son-of-a-bitch."

"Myron!" Their mother scolded, turning to her eldest with a glare.

Myron amended his statement. "You spoiled son-of-an-angel." Their mother rolled her eyes as Myron gave her an angelic smile of his own. "When I turned sixteen I got a new spear. You're going to get the Capitol on a silver platter."

"That would have to be a hell of a platter." Finnick screwed up his eyes, as if he were trying to envision it. "Some of them do dress like oversized sweets. Last time I was at a banquet, I started to cut a slice of cake before I realized I was holding a butter knife to a woman's dress!"

His mother swatted him with a dishcloth while Myron roared with laughter.

That was the last time Finnick remembered being truly happy with his family.

Mags had been called away for business in District Two so Finnick found himself riding the train alone to the Capitol for the first time. Dora was assigned to show him around, his prep team scraped him down to nothing and Arnavi wrapped him in expensive silk. Other than their sad excuse for company, he was completely alone until his party.

It was an extravagant affair: nearly as explosive and decadent as his Victory party. This time there was no Mags ushering him about so Finnick wandered freely and confusedly. Everyone was grabbing his arm for his attention: so many voices chimed with cries of, "Happy Birthday!" At first he didn't recognize the cake for what it was: the sculpture of waves crashing against a cliff while a lone figure stood triumphantly above certainly did not look edible. In spite of his hesitance, Finnick cut the first slice and ate it, figuring this was the closest he would get to the sea on this birthday.

That realization made his homesickness sink in further. He began accepting the fizzy drinks from strangers and actually downing them, rather than slyly setting them aside as Mags taught him. His thoughts slowed down and the unbearable heaviness that had settled on him since he won his Games lifted. He was genuinely laughing now, unable to understand why he had been so disgusted with the Capitol before. It was so much less harsh than home, warmer and brighter. No one avoided him: everyone sought him out. This was his party; he was the center of attention. Soon he wasn't able to follow the conversation at all, so he filled the gaps with chuckles and smiles.

When the woman with the black nails pulled him away from the party, he accepted the acid green drink she held out to him between her talons. His brain almost seemed to go backward once he finished it and he blinked, unable to understand how he went from the middle of a cheering crowd to a dark, private room. She pushed him onto the bed, her nails leaving marks on his shoulders. It reminded Finnick of the bruises Yvonne gave him the night before the Games and he squinted uncomfortably, trying to sort through his thoughts. Her lips trailed down his bare chest. As her mouth went lower and disappeared under the fabric, he twitched his hands in a feeble attempt to move them. His mind was working slowly yet quickly all at once and his killer-honed instincts were telling him that he was vulnerable while his sane mind idly wondered why.

She moved upward again and kissed him fully on the mouth. In that moment she became Yvonne and Finnick mustered the energy to turn his head to the side in refusal.

"No," He croaked, his voice so pathetic it must have come from another person. The woman with the black nails laughed carelessly and kissed him again, her hands sliding down his side. One of them found just the right fold of fabric and tugged.

Finnick felt himself unravel.

* * *

 There were weights pulling down his eyelids. That was the only explanation for why wrenching his eyes open was more difficult than any feat of strength he had achieved in the arena. At first he thought he was in the ocean, the sensation of salt beneath his eyelashes and the corner of his eyes was so familiar. His stomach was turning rapidly and his body felt stiff, disjointed. But the material beneath him felt soft and airy against his naked back.

Naked.

Why was he naked?

This curious thought gave him the strength the open his eyes. He could see sand nearby, reaffirming his earlier belief. Had he been in a storm and washed ashore? No, he was definitely not lying in a bed of gritty sand. The room came into focus and he saw now that the sand was the image of sifting sand dunes projected into a window. He was in the Capitol. Why did he feel so sick? Why did his muscles ache with protest when he moved them? Why was there salt on his eyelashes?

He'd been crying when he fell asleep.

He moved his head to the side and jerked sharply. A woman was lying there, her arm draped lazily over him: he hadn't even noticed it until he moved, his nerves were so shot. She was still asleep and he could see strange black spider webs tattooed onto her eyelids. Everything about her was the deepest obsidian, besides her icy white skin – she was a study in contrast. In her own exotic and strange way she wasn't hideous, but she made Finnick's skin crawl. She was Capitol and her hand was cold where it touched his arm. She was a stranger.

His stomach turned again, more insistent this time and Finnick couldn't suppress the urge. He rolled off the bed, crouched down on his knees and vomited all over the floor.

"What-?" The sound of his retching woke the woman up and panicked, Finnick saw his outfit from the night before, completely unmade into a simple sheet of silk. He grabbed it and wrapped it around him, covering his modestly pointlessly. He could smell it in the air, in the bed, on the silk, on him. It smelled of those hidden moments in his bedroom and his bathroom back home, when he gave into his carnal desires and touched himself.

It smelled of sex.

He threw up again. The woman jumped out of bed. The sight of her black fingernails triggered his memory and he felt them running down his back. More vomit.

"Ugh, get out!" She screamed, recoiling from the vomit pooling on her pearly white carpet. "Out, out, out!"

Finnick wrapped himself in the silk, unsure how to fasten it correctly but suddenly wanting to cover as much of himself as possible. He fled the room, unsure where he was and where he should go. The Peacekeepers waiting by the outside helped direct him.

Right into President Snow's office.

He stood there, shivering, the thin cloth wrapped around him like a towel and smelling of puke while the President of Panem sat at his desk signing a few papers. After some of the most uncomfortable moments of Finnick's life, he finally looked up. "Have a seat, Mr. Odair," he said, as if this were a just a regular business meeting and Finnick hadn't been dragged there wearing next to nothing.

Finnick sat down, trying to catch up. The world was moving too fast – there had been a party, he had woken up in a stranger's bed, he had been vomiting and now he was sitting with the President – and he just wished it would slow down.

"Did you have a fun party?"

He looked down at his disheveled state. Had he? It certainly didn't feel fun, but he knew from Myron how people were often the most miserable after a night of reckless abandon. "I don't remember." He whispered, lips swollen and stinging.

Snow laughed. It was a cold laugh. "Yes, that can often be a side-effect of excessive inebriation. You'll find ways to adapt and cope, I have no doubt."

Finnick had many doubts about that statement. The first of which being he doubted he would ever drink alcohol again. "Mr. President, why am I here?" He asked carefully, remembering the chilling conversation they'd had after his Games and feeling wary.

"Most people believe winning the Games is about cunning and strength." Snow told him. "The smart Tributes realize the most important tool is popularity. Career Tributes are coached in the art of gaining the audience's favor for at least two years before they're recommended to volunteer." Finnick knew this. It was part of Training – a part he'd never participated in because he was Reaped so early. "That is half of the reason they are favored to win. The other half is their skills and viciousness in combat. You were quite skilled in the Games, Mr. Odair. But you and I both know your success was based almost entirely on your popularity." He gave Finnick a knowing look. Finnick nodded in agreement. "That trident was the most expensive gift ever granted to a Tribute." Finnick had not known that. Why hadn't Mags told him? "In my entire tenure as President, I've never seen someone gain so much favor within the Capitol. And so naturally."

The back of Finnick's neck heated up. "Um, I'm not sure how naturally–"

Snow waved him off. "I was not born yesterday. Tributes lie to gain Sponsors. They put on masks and airs. But – since I feel like we can be honest with each other – it wasn't your personality that gained you fans. It was your looks."

And there it was. It was finally out there. Nobody wanted Finnick. They wanted Finnick's body.

"All right, if we're being honest," Finnick pulled the sheet tighter around his body. "I'm not comfortable being objectified like that."

Objectified. That was one of the words Mags would use when she was scolding Arnavi.

"Dear boy, this conversation has nothing to do with your comfort level." Snow drummed his fingers against the desk. "This is about what the public wants. And what the public wants is you. Do you remember the conversation we had last year, after your Victory?"

"Yes." Snow's implied threat was permanently imprinted in his brain.

"It is time for you to pay back your debt to the Capitol, just as we discussed."

Finnick furrowed his brow. "I thought I was already doing that – keeping the people happy."

Snow shook his head. "You naïve child. The people need more than just smiles and interviews to keep them happy. They don't want to settle for simply seeing and hearing – they want to touch, smell, taste … And if they happen to provide the Capitol with a generous donation, what kind of leader would I be to deny them of such pleasures?"

The words were rolling around within his aching mind. _Touch, smell, taste, donation, pleasures…_ "You're not talking about sex." It sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth. The President didn't care about Finnick's sex life. He was talking about some new propaganda ad, or a party.

"Of course I am." Snow told him, derailing Finnick's train of thought. "I have been receiving requests for an evening with you since you won your Games. I told them they would have to wait, of course – you were a child then. But now you are an adult, and you can fulfill your duties to the Capitol."

There were so many things wrong with what Snow said – the assumption he would ever sleep with one of his disturbing admirers, the knowledge that they had wanted to do so since he was fourteen, the fact that the President was even discussing this with Finnick in the first place. "I'm still a child," Finnick fixated on desperately. He'd murdered seven other children, owned a house and boat of his own, and apparently had lost his virginity. None of those things made him an adult.

It was as if Snow could read his mind. "Not with regard to sexual activities and the law. And not with regard to your sexual experience."

"But I _lied_." They had already been over this, hadn't they? "I never did any of those things, I never actually…"

"You didn't have sex last night?" Snow raised his eyebrows. On anyone else it would be an expression of good humor. On him it was terrifying.

Finnick pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. He didn't even care that he was losing his composure in front of Snow; it was obvious to both of them that this conversation was rapidly slipping out of Finnick's control. "I don't know…" He confessed, fingers threading through his curls. He'd drank so much last night, all of them blurred together. Red drinks, pink drinks, blue drinks, yellow drinks…one acid green drink stood out amongst the crowd. He remembered the odd way it bubbled, how he hadn't seen anyone else holding one. Black claws offered it to him while drinking a yellow drink of her own.

"Well I can assure you that you did, Mr. Odair."

Snow's certainty left no room for doubt. There had been Peacekeepers at the door in the morning. The party was in the President's mansion, and the woman with the black nails had guided him to the room so easily. A flash of memory. There were Peacekeepers at the door _before_ they went into the room. And one of them nodded at the woman with the black nails. They had been standing on either side of the door, in exactly the same position they had been in the morning. Like they were standing guard. Like they knew he was coming.

"You knew…" Finnick whispered. His eyes were wide and disbelieving. "You knew she was going to take me to that room. How did you know before it even happened?"

Snow spoke slowly, as if he were explaining arithmetic to a simpleton. "Your client requested a private room in the mansion for her night with you and paid extra for it. Naturally, I was obliging."

 _Client. Paid._ Finnick was cold. His fingers began to tremble and turn white. "She _paid_ for me? You _sold_ me?" The words were so foreign on his lips. You paid for and sold fish at the market. Fruit. Lovely decorations to put in your house. Objects.

"Yes." Snow seemed pleased that he was grasping the concept. "It is an arrangement I am happy to make with popular and attractive Victors with whom wealthy patrons have an interest in. Your client from last night was extremely impatient to get your hands on you and offered more money to spend the night with you as soon as you turned sixteen. You had made quite the impression on her, as well as many others." He observed Finnick through narrowed eyes, taking in his clenched jaw. "Don't look so upset. Aside from the opportunity to share the company of the most famous and wealthy people in Panem, Victors are compensated for their time. The majority of the cost goes to the Capitol of course, as payment for the generosity we provided for you and will continue to provide for you over the years. But Victors do receive a ten percent cut." He pulled out an envelope from a pile of papers on his desk and pushed it toward Finnick. "I think you'll find the rewards well worth your efforts. Most Victors do."

Finnick stared at the envelope. Inside was a tenth of the monetary value for a fuck with him. As soon as that thought crossed his mind he crumpled the envelope up with a scream of fury, tearing it into pieces and throwing them around the room. A fuck. A paid for transaction. That's what losing his virginity was.

"Mr. Odair," Snow's voice cut through his attack of rage. "If you are going to continue your temper-tantrum, I'm sure the Peacekeepers outside would be more than happy to teach you how to behave."

He sank back down to the chair, breathing heavily through his nostrils. "Temper-tantrum?" He demanded as loudly as he could without screaming. "You sold me! Without my consent! I–" Another flashback. Tears. Unable to move. The feeling of indescribable shame. "I said no!" He remembered. "I told her no, but I couldn't move and…you _sold_ me."

"I think we are both well aware that I sold you at this point." Snow's voice was dry, as if they were having a normal conversation rather than discussing how he had whored Finnick to a stranger without his knowledge or consent. "And I'm sure if you had been less inebriated you would not have said 'no.' Your client was reasonably attractive and quite famous in Capitol circles. A connection to her would be quite advantageous for you."

Finnick didn't understand why Snow was treating the situation like this, as if it were something completely practical instead of totally immoral and despicable. "I don't want connections!" His voice was quivering. It was pathetic. "I don't care what she looked like! I'm not your Capitol whore and I never will be. You can keep your fucking money."

There was a shift in President Snow's expression. "Then I will." He told Finnick. "And I will consider your contributions to the Capitol as a gift made from gratitude. Life in the Districts is terribly dangerous, you must understand. And District Four with its proximity to the ocean is one of the most dangerous of all. All of Panem would mourn with you if you lost your mother and your brother." He paused to let that sink in. "So do we have a deal, Finnick?"

Somehow it was the use of his first name that made his situation so unbelievably clear to Finnick. The President of Panem had sold him last night like a slave. He planned on doing so again an uncertain amount of times. If Finnick refused, his loved ones would die.

He looked up from his knotted hands and realized he was looking into the eyes of the Devil. The Devil who's wrinkled hand was extended in a gesture that was meant to be an offer but was truthfully a demand.

He took the hand and shook it, "Yes."

* * *

 As it turned out, a deal with the Devil had a few stipulations.

The first was that Finnick was expected to travel to the Capitol when he was summoned and leave when he was dismissed, no questions asked. Unlike his previous visits there was to be little fuss and fanfare about them unless otherwise specified. Such trips were 'business trips' and he would refer to them as such when anyone asked.

The second was that Finnick was to stay in an apartment the Capitol provided him with during these visits, rather than the Remake Center as he had previously been doing. This was in case any of his clients wanted to keep their encounter private and secretive – typically because they were married and not in an open relationship.

The third was that he was not allowed to reveal the true nature of his duties to the Capitol to anyone. Prostitution was illegal. Technically Panem was a democratic state, though the only citizens with the power to vote were Capitol citizens. And even though they were decadent, corrupt and filled with disregard for human life, most Capitol citizens were against prostitution. Not only would an attempt to life the prostitution ban never pass, but it would also be horrible publicity for the Capitol if they attempted to take a pro-prostitution stance. So it was a secret that only the wealthiest and most corrupt citizens were privy to.

And Finnick.

Snow had mentioned other Victors, and Finnick's spent hours speculating on their identities. Who else was there? And were they all coerced, or did they actually do it for the money? He desperately needed someone to turn to, since Snow promised death to anyone who learned this terrible secret between the two of them. Finnick spent hours tying and untying knots in his bedroom when he was home, unable to face his mother and Myron. His greatest fear was that they would see his poorly hidden horror and unearth the truth. After a few weeks of being home, Finnick realized they thought being in the Capitol made him relive the trauma of his games. He was experiencing a type of cruelty neither of them could fathom. With this realization came the burden of responsibility and the understanding that their innocence was a precious gift. For once innocence was taken it could never be regained.

He wrestled with himself for over a month before Mags finally arrived home. Finnick waited a day before nonchalantly telling his mother he planned to take Mags on a walk down the shore. She greeted him with a kiss to the cheek and he welcomed her with a quick hug. They strolled down along the water in complete silence, giving off the impression of two people who needed nothing more than the other's presence to be content. They walked until they reached a secluded cove far away from the docks and the swimming beaches.

When Finnick turns to Mags, she already had tears in her eyes. "Oh my sweet boy," She asked him, touching his face gently. "What did they do to you?"

He responded by collapsing to the ground with an anguished scream, finally releasing the wrath and hurt he'd shown Snow a glimpse of in the President's office. He cried and rocked on his knees, fingers kneading his hair desperately, pulling on it. Maybe if he pulled it all out, he wouldn't be pretty anymore. Maybe if he were damaged goods they would leave him alone.

But Snow would know and would punish him for it, through Myron and his mother. Snow knew everything.

So he let Mags patch him back together with her gentle words and worried caresses. He leaned against her as if she were a crutch and allowed her to keep him alive.

* * *

 They received an official letter from President Snow, in the form of a contract. Finnick was required to act as a mentor for the next fifteen Games. Finnick was required to do whatever President Snow decided on a whim, so the contract was simply for show. One legal document of many the Capitol could hold up for justification if they ever decided to punish him publicly.

"Cheer up, Finn, this is a good thing." Myron told him as they helped the rest of the fishing crew cast off from the docks. Finnick had grown increasingly paranoid and refused to let his family do anything remotely risky without him there to keep an eye out. This included accompanying Myron on his fishing trips, despite the crew's obvious discontent with his presence. He didn't give a shit about their opinions anymore. "It means you're seen as valuable. And maybe you can give some poor kid a chance of coming home."

The poor kid that year was named Dauntless Riveria, which sounded so Capitol he could have blended seamlessly into the public sphere if he became a Victor. He did not. He was killed in his sleep on Day Four, while Finnick was tracing the inside of a woman's vagina with his tongue. When he returned to the Training Center, his fellow District Four mentor Freya chastised him in front of all the other mentors.

"Your Tribute is dead." She told him bluntly while he struggled to keep her in focus. The strange drugs his client made him take were taking a toll on his vision. "If you'd been here instead of off fucking, you could have sent him a parachute to wake him up and warn him." She paused before adding spitefully, "And you have cum on your chin."

He chest tightened. "You could try to contain your jealousy, Freya." His voice flowed smoothly past his lips. "Dauntless was never going to make it. He was just an idiot with grandiose ideas about glory."

It was true. Dauntless had volunteered before Dora could finish announcing the original Tribute's name and strutted to the front like a peacock. He had cared nothing for anything Finnick said to him – Finnick was, after all, a year younger – and only focused on the fighting training rather than the survival skills. He was completely idiotic and oblivious: two terrible traits for a Tribute. Finnick watched him waste a lifetime's earning's worth of gifts in the arena, through stumbles and gaffs that led to him not noticing the parachutes raining down from the sky or allowing his competitors to get to them first. When he re-watched the Games Finnick saw that Dauntless was in a starved, thirsty, sleep-deprived coma when he fell asleep for the final time. No parachute would have been able to wake him up.

Still, Dauntless joined the ever-growing cast of figures who haunted his dreams.

* * *

 Once Dauntless was dead, Finnick had no reason to be in the Capitol aside from sex. So his appointments were lined up, some as many as three in a night. The day after Dauntless was dead, Finnick received a summons to the President's office. He was still young, not yet seventeen, so he dared to hope. He hoped that Dauntless's death made the President realize Finnick wasn't cut out to be a mentor He hoped that the President realized Finnick couldn't mentor and service clients at the same time. He hoped that the President would tell him his popularity had dwindled and the Capitol had no interest in him anymore.

"Your performances have been disappointing." Snow said instead, not waiting for Finnick to sit down. "We've received a few negative reports from clients who were unsatisfied with their experience. They claimed you were unenthusiastic and one said that you cried. You made your clients feel unappreciated, sad and even guilty. I called you here as a friendly reminder that the safety of your family is a privilege, not a right, and can be changed on a whim. That's all." And he returned to the tea he was sipping.

Finnick became careful. He made sure to smile whenever his clients were looking at his face and kept his voice low and sultry. He asked them what they wanted him to do to them, disguising his inexperience as a need to please. He learned that even when he felt like gagging, retching or pulling a face he just needed to keep the corners of his mouth turned up; that way even his most revolted face would come off as a smirk. He forced his eyes to rove the bodies that were displayed shamelessly before him, rather than averting his face. He talked to them before, during and after. One woman was so pleased with his company she gave him a ruby the size of his big toe. It was precious, undeniably so, but Finnick slipped it into the trash discreetly in the Training Center when he returned. He couldn't bear the sight of it.

On the last night, he had memorized the act. This was his last client, the last ordeal before he could return home. Before he could return to the family he had literally shielded with his body. He had only been playing this role for a few weeks but he already knew that his clients could be divided into two kinds. The first were the types who were gaudy and exhibitionists. They rented him for a party, talked with him, danced with him and left publicly with them. They were the ones the media took attention to, publically known as his "lovers." As much as he was looking forward to going home, Finnick was dreading having to explain the situation to his mother. The thought of extending his playboy act even when he was at home made his stomach turn.

The second were types who, for some reason or another, wanted their rendezvous to remain private. Maybe they couldn't afford the price for a public outing with him, maybe they had a spouse or lover who would be jealous, or maybe they were only interested in a quick fuck. Something akin to optimism inside Finnick wondered if maybe they knew deep down what they were doing was wrong and they felt shame over it. Regardless, he preferred the private meetings to the public ones. They were quicker, required less talking on his part and there was no messy publicity. In and out.

His last client had requested a private meeting. Two Peacekeepers escorted Finnick to a lovely little town home and relayed the instructions that he was to wait on the bed before they went to stand at the front door. There were always Peacekeepers near Finnick when he met with clients and he had no idea if they were for his clients' protection or his own.

The room was dark so he turned on a few strategic dim lights that would shine on the bed as if it were a stage. Finnick undressed himself and lay naked on the bed while he waited. More than anything, he hated the way his clients' clumsy fingers took away his clothes while their little mouths squealed like they were unwrapping a present. Also, the sight of his naked body lying in wait for her was likely to make his client hornier faster. In the past few weeks he'd learned what foreplay was and knew it was the key to a satisfied customer. It was also his least favorite part because it required far more acting and attention to his faux-lover than he wanted to give. So he was going to make this one quick.

In and out.

Sell it.

The door creaked open and Finnick adjusted his pose so he was lying on his side, his left arm draped casually on his thigh. "I've been waiting for you." He said to the darkness in his best sensual voice, which was sounding more real and less like a child playing pretend with every encounter.

There was a deep intake of breath and a figure stepped into the light. It was a man whose age was indeterminable, like so many Capitol citizens. He wore bright colors to accompany his shockingly green hair while his skin was pulled back in the unnatural way that marked an older person who underwent enhancements to appear young again.

Finnick only had a brief moment to take this information in before he panicked, pulling the covers he was lying on top of around him. What was this man doing here? Was he a lover, a husband? Why would the Peacekeepers have allowed him in?

"What are you doing?" The man asked him, amusement coating his voice. Finnick was used to his rare bursts of modesty providing amusement for the shameless people of the Capitol. Still, he sounded far too amused for a man who'd found another man – a boy, really – in his lover's bed. So maybe he was a government official, here to tell Finnick the appointment had been cancelled. Or maybe he and his lover had an extremely open relationship.

"Um, I…" Finnick found himself grasping for words. "Who are you?"

"Paprik." The man replied, stepping closer and taking off his jacket. His eyes were hungry. "And you are Finnick. Our names rhyme, isn't that fun?" There was something extremely childlike in his voice, a certain kind of innocence Finnick had only heard from ordinary citizens of the Capitol. Most government officials were far more slippery and frightening. However Finnick did indeed feel frightened of Paprik as he moved closer to the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding." Finnick protested, shrinking back. "I'm, um, supposed to be waiting for somebody."

Paprik laughed, as if Finnick had just told him a marvelous joke. "Oh, aren't you coy. Mafalda mentioned you were wonderfully funny when she recommended you."

Mafalda. He had serviced her a week ago. She recommended him to Paprik. Paprik was the client.

Finnick slid off the other side of the bed, wrapping the covers around him even more securely. "Okay, there's definitely been a misunderstanding." He told Paprik, who was giving him a bemused half-smile. "I don't…I'm not supposed to…" His deal with Snow flashed in his mind. He'd said 'women,' right? He was supposed to entertain and sleep with women. That was his job.

Except Finnick couldn't recall President Sow ever specifically saying 'women.'

"Oh, this shy act is fun too, but I've had a long day at work and don't really have a lot of time to waste." Paprik was saying, his shirt fully off now. His stomach and chest were pale and soft, the sign of someone who'd never done a day of real work in his life. He started to go around the bed as he unbuckled his pants.

Panic. That was what caused Finnick to dive across the bed, grab his pants and run. Paprik gave a shout of surprise and started to go after him, but Finnick turned and decked him fully across the face. Paprik fell to the ground almost comically and touched his bloody lip. Finnick didn't waste another second staring at him. He pulled on his pants and secured them before bolting out of the room. There were voices coming up the stairs and he vaguely recognized them as the Peacekeepers. They must have heard the commotion and were coming to see what was wrong. It made Finnick wonder what other noises they heard when they were guarding him. He sprinted down the hall in the opposite direction that he'd come looking for another way out. There was only one set of stairs and the Peacekeepers were thundering up it. Finnick opened a door and flung himself in the room, locking it behind him. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run…the window on the other side of the room caught his attention. It was made from real glass, not a force field. He ran to it and looked down. It was two stories high. The Peacekeepers were banging on the door now. Finnick grabbed a lovely wooden chair and bashed the window with it. The first time the glass cracked. The second time it shattered. There was shouting behind the door and suddenly the door was knocked completely off its hinges. Finnick climbed onto the window ledge, he was almost there, almost free.

As he jumped, one of the Peacekeepers caught him and pulled him back inside, kicking and screaming. He screamed and screamed at them while they beat him down with their batons, until a blow to his ribcage made it difficult to breathe. They tied his hands behind his wrists so he couldn't lash out anymore and forced him to his knees.

Paprik came into the room, his lip swollen and tears staining his synthetic cheeks. "Oh no!" He gasped in dismay upon seeing the state of the room: the knocked-down door, the destroyed window, the scratched chair. "Oh, this is absolutely horrible!"

"The Capitol sincerely apologizes." The Peacekeeper to Finnick's right said. "You will be refunded for your purchase and compensated for any damage caused during this encounter. You will also receive additional compensation for your trouble in exchange for not divulging the events of this encounter to anyone."

They were bribing Paprik to keep his mouth shut. Finnick's head swam as he thought about the money the Capitol would lose because of his actions. Snow was not going to be happy. Snow was going to be furious.

Yet in his dazed and half-conscious state, Finnick was relieved. He was not going to sleep with Paprik. Thank god.

Paprik pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well yes, of course I would like my transaction refunded, this has been an absolute nightmare." He touched his lip again. Finnick wondered how many seconds he would last in the Games. "But this chair was absolutely priceless – hand-crafted by the best chair maker in District Seven. I'm afraid there will be no replacing it."

The Peacekeeper replied stoically, "The Capitol will do what it can to make sure you are properly compensated. Have a good evening." He and the other Peacekeeper picked Finnick up by his arms and began dragging him out the door.

"Wait!" Paprik called, looking nervous and twitchy. There was something else in his eyes, something unreadable. "Since the chair was irreplaceable, perhaps for my additional compensation I could still receive my purchase while also having it refunded? It would only be fair."

Shit. Finnick looked up at the Peacekeeper to his right, silently begging him to say no. The Peacekeeper didn't look down as he answered, "Such a trade would be seen as acceptable. The Capitol's only fear is for your safety."

"Oh, nonsense." Paprik brushed him off, though there was a trace of fear on his face. "As long as he is restrained, I should be perfectly safe. And maybe you could stand outside the door?" He added. Finnick was strongly reminded of a child asking his parents if he could sleep in their bed after a nightmare.

This all certainly felt like a nightmare to Finnick. He wished the Peacekeepers had beaten him more, until he was unconscious or maybe even dead. Yes, dead would have been better.

"Very well." The Peacekeeper's words broke Finnick and he began struggling feebly while they dragged him to Paprik's room. He growled and swore, snarling like a wild animal when they threw him facedown onto the bed.

"Get the fuck _off me_!" He pleaded, voice breaking while they pulled off his pants, meticulously fastening his bound hands to the headboard and tying each ankle to a different spot on the baseboard. Then he lay there, shivering and cursing, spread out in preparation. He had never been more afraid in his life.

"Would you like us to gag him?" The lead Peacekeeper asked Paprik.

"No, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you…" Paprik's voice was squeaky and nervous. There was also a coat of excitement.

Because Paprik was bored with his safe life and the feeling of Finnick's fist against his lip was the most exhilarating experience he'd ever had. And that night he discovered that while his fumbles beneath the sheets with friends and consenting lovers were fun and pleasant, nothing made him feel more alive than the danger of an unwilling lover. So even years later when Finnick knew how to be with a man and make him feel safe, desired and warm, Paprik would demand that they play a game, hoping to catch some of the magic he'd felt when he dominated a terrified boy for the first time, his screams ringing in the air.

Finnick always loathed when Paprik rented him, not just because of the horrific memories of their first time together. It was mostly because as he lay there, gasping against the pillow he'd tried and failed to smother himself with, Finnick realized something. That even though the pain was completely different from every fuck he'd shared with a woman, the feeling of queasy horror and shame was absolutely the same. It was in that moment that he finally comprehended what had been happening to him for the last few weeks, what had happened to him on his birthday, and what would happen to him in the future.

It was called rape.

* * *

 The most horrible thing about Paprik was that in the moment of near-escape, Finnick had known he was dooming his family to death. The knowledge had knocked him in the back of his brain, screaming _Go back, go back, what are you doing?_ But his body had taken control and there was no stopping it. All that mattered was not sleeping with Paprik, not letting the man get anywhere near his body.

The most horrible thing about Paprik was that it had all been for nothing.

He did not escape. Paprik fucked him until he couldn't feel anything and then lay down beside Finnick. Finnick lay away the entire night trying to twist his hands out of the ties so that he could strangle the hateful, pathetic man. The knots were too tangled and he couldn't find the right loop or strand. He lay there awake knowing in his heart that his family was going to die. There was no such thing as optimism in Finnick's world. There would not be for a long time.

He was sent straight home, riding the train home with Freya who shook her head at his beaten state. He told her the lie a stranger had handed to him on a plastic card. He was mugged. They ganged up on him and beat him down. Fortunately some Peacekeepers were around the corner so they arrested the criminals.

Freya shook her head in disgust. "Some Victor." She never talked to him again.

There was no family to greet him at home. Finnick didn't expect there to be. Instead there were a few Peacekeepers there, to tell him the tragic news. His mother and Myron had been out on _Sirena_ when they hit a reef and drowned. The funeral was small, just Finnick, Mags, a few of his mother's friends and some of the fishermen Myron helped out. Paul Duquette, one of the few fishermen who'd actually been friendly to Finnick when he tagged along, pulled him aside afterward and spoke nervously.

"It's a bit odd, isn't it?" Paul whispered. "The ocean was so calm that day. Myron was amazing swimmer – he was knocked off the boat during a hurricane and survived for an hour in the water before he was able to climb back on. And he mentioned your mom hadn't been on a boat since your dad died."

This was all true. Finnick fixed a sad look on his face and rested his hand on Paul's shoulder. "Sometimes accidents happen. Even the best swimmers can drown." He looked Paul evenly in the eye. "Especially if they ask too many questions." He hoped Paul would understand his warning and let matters lie.

He moved past Paul and headed toward Mags, who took the arm he offered and patted it gratefully. After he took her home, Finnick walked down the path leading to the main road of Victor's Village. There was something green and white lying in the middle of the path, something that hadn't been there before. As he approached, he saw that it was a flower. Who would leave Mags a flower? Once he was close enough to see what it was, Finnick halted in his tracks.

It was a white rose.

He'd only seen one of them before, on Snow's lapel. This one was frighteningly similar. And there was a note attached. Finnick reached down and removed the note.

_Keep your head down and she'll keep hers._

Icy fear travelled down his spine. They wouldn't hurt Mags, would they? She was a Victor; there would be too many questions. Except no, she was an _old_ Victor. If she simply didn't wake up one morning, there would be no questions. No one would care. No one aside from Finnick.

Finnick was the only person who cared about Mags. Mags was the only person who cared about Finnick. She was his entire family now. He would do anything to keep her safe.

And Snow knew it.

* * *

 Despite his continued insistence on her staying safe, Mags volunteered to mentor alongside Finnick for three consecutive years. It was a relief and a burden. Unlike Freya or the other Victors, Mags knew that he had no choice but to leave when he was summoned. She saw the unease and panic he tried to hide, which was a blessing and a curse. She covered for him and picked up the slack with whatever Tribute he was assigned to. She also gave him worried looks and constantly asked about his wellbeing. Finnick was ninety-five percent sure Mags knew the situation he was in. He chose to live in the five percent of uncertainty, where his grief was his alone.

He learned who some of the other Victors who sold their bodies were. They were all from District One, where the most beautiful and greedy Victors lived. They were in it for the money and the opportunity for greater fame. If any of them were like him, their masks were even better than his, for he could not pick them out. And judging from the media and gossip, no other Victor took so many 'lovers' as he. To his dismay, Finnick found the public's fascination with him rising rather than diminishing as he grew older. He was beautiful enough to turn the head of any male, yet masculine enough for any woman. Among the Victors he was unique, therefore he was the most popular.

Eventually Finnick gave up trying to find a Victor who could understand his grief. The naïve Victors thought him a spoiled playboy, the more informed believed he chose his path. By the age of nineteen he was renowned in Panem as a sexual deviant and generally considered a terrible mentor by all the other Victors. District Four had not won a Game since Finnick was crowned.

When anyone questioned him, Finnick waved them off and said the other Tributes were stronger, that he and his Tributes had worked as hard as they could. His Tributes were all Careers with glory-hungry eyes. They threw themselves into their training and gathering sponsors. Angelique Charon was trapped under a fallen rock that crushed her leg and was given a mercy killing by a boy from District Seven two days later. Gregor Underwood, Finnick's old friend, allied with the Career pack and was killed on the last day. Technically, he placed third. His clients that night congratulated him on his achievement.

Mags didn't even question him when he returned to the Training Center that night and vomited until he was retching blood.

Dauntless, Angelique and Gregor would have all made better Victors than Finnick. They would have wanted the attention, loved the finery around them. Mags's Tributes were the same. All Careers, all volunteers. They were bloodthirsty, greedy and cruel. Yet at the end of their lives, they were all the same: broken children, just wanting the pain to end.

The children in District Four must have seen the pain, understood on some level the pointlessness of it all. The suffering was not worth the glory. The glamor of Finnick's win wore off and they were on a losing streak. It was even worse for the girls: District Four's last female Victor had been Freya in the 57th Hunger Games. That must have been why when Annie Cresta –who was lovely and kind and obviously had never set foot in Training – was Reaped for the 70th Games, no one volunteered. No one made a sound.

She was older than Finnick had been – sixteen, seventeen probably – yet seemed far smaller. Despite her willowy figure her presence was tiny and terrified. Finnick realized that she was crying and wanted to shake her. District Four Tributes never cried. They were a Career District. They had a _reputation_ to maintain and her tears would make it harder for future Tributes to gain any respect.

Then again, she probably didn't care about respect for future Tributes. She was not going to survive.

Mags would scold him for writing off a Tribute so early, but there was no denying the facts. The boy that year, now there was a Tribute with a chance at winning. He volunteered readily and clearly. Triston Eldale. Finnick remembered him from Training. Triston had been two years beneath him, but had heard the rumblings even back before he was Reaped. Triston was strong, clever, brave, powerful and quick. He was everything Myron was supposed to have been. Except, clearly, he did not have Myron's heart and wisdom, otherwise he would not have volunteered. Only fools volunteered.

"I'll take the boy." Mags told him and Finnick didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated. He _had_ told her he was tired of fools volunteering to die, but she was saddling him with a Tribute who would never win.

Then again, maybe it was for the best. He wouldn't feel so guilty when he was called away. Maybe she would be killed at the Cornucopia and wouldn't have to suffer. He looked at the Reaping Stage and in the moment Annie turned her weeping eyes to him. Yes, it was certainly for the best, for everyone.

After all, it was better to be dead than a Victor


	3. Even while we sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a possibly confusing reference to prohibitions against same-sex marriage in this chapter, so I will try to summarize the cultural phenomenon of marriage in the Capitol and the Districts in this fic. Panem banned gay marriage even though it had been legal before, because there was a population shortage and they did the typical totalitarian government thing of finding a scapegoat rather than solving the problem. In the Districts, the way they get around this is that same-sex couples simply live together but have no marriage rights. Culturally this is seen as a slightly unusual and unfortunate (unfortunate because the couple does not get the same marriage rights as a different-sex couple) way of life, but is accepted. In the Districts marriage is less about legality and more about living together and providing for one another. In the Capitol, marriage is all about legality and social advantages. Since the Capitol people are used to getting what they want, their way around same-sex marriage banning is that if two people marry each other and one is homosexual, they make an arrangement so that the marriage is simply one on paper and they're free to see other people on the side. So there's this weird thing that's developed where the Capitol people are very free with their sexuality and see it as a sliding scale (which is strangely progressive for the Capitol, but every culture has its positive aspects) but they are very strict about marriage.  
> Personally, I'm a big fan of the "love who you want, marry who you want" perspective. In a perfect world, this would be the case. Panem is definitely not a perfect world.

Triston and Annie were sitting at the extravagant dining table when Finnick and Mags joined them. Triston was board-straight, like a soldier at attention with both his hands down at his sides. Annie was chewing slowly on a roll, her eyes fixing on the Victors as they entered.

"Hello Annie and Triston," He addressed them. "I'm Finnick and this is Mags. We're going to be your mentors during the Games. When we get to the Capitol, we'll be giving you advice on your training and how to present yourself in order to get sponsors." In the background he could hear the faint sound of Mags's stomach growling and realized she hadn't eaten since before the Reaping. He pulled out the chair across from Tristan and eased her into it, before sitting down and helping himself to some smoked salmon on a bagel.

There was little noise in the compartment aside from the clink of silverware as Finnick and Mags pilled food onto their plates, Annie's soft chewing and the sound of Triston agitatedly drumming his fingers against his leg. Finally, he snapped. "Aren't you going to give us any advice now?"

Finnick felt a jolt of annoyance. The train ride was supposed to be his transition back to the hellish world of the Capitol. Triston's impatience was already getting on his nerves, and he thanked Mags's wisdom for suggesting they switch. "Sure," He told Triston. "My advice is to eat while you can. And if Dora starts to tell you about the party with the pig, divert the conversation immediately. Mags, can you pass the tomatoes?"

"Did I hear something about a pig?" Dora's voice drifted through the train toward them. She had not, to her chagrin, been promoted. Finnick didn't tell her, but it was likely his fault. He figured Snow did not want too many Capitolites getting to know him on a personal level. Over the years he'd come to foster a strange affection for Dora. She was vapid, ridiculous and selfish, but she was far more tolerable than any other Capitolite he'd ever met. As she walked into the room, he found himself smiling at her see-weed wrap dress. He'd seen it from a distance on the Reaping Stage, but it was something else entirely up close.

He shook his head. "Oh don't worry, I already relayed the entire story of the party with the pig to our new Tributes, they're up to speed now. Right guys?" Triston blinked and stared at Finnick as if he'd grown two heads. Annie gave a little smile and the tinniest of nods before finishing her roll. She scanned the table and carefully selected a boiled egg.

"Oh Finnick, you spoil all of my fun!" Dora came to stand between him and Mags. From the sound of her voice, he could tell she was smiling brightly. "Now, I hope you two are enjoying yourselves now. I don't suppose you've ever seen most of this food before?" And she went on to describe every different piece of food on the table, like the Tributes were starving children from Twelve instead of well-fed young adults from Four. Well, Triston certainly was. It was hard to tell with Annie. Finnick was used to Career girls, who ate protein bars for breakfast and lifted weights. Her thin stature may have just been from lack of muscle – he was sure she would look healthy compared to the poorer Tributes.

No, she was certainly a middle of the road Tribute, which meant she was doomed. She would get no favoritism or sympathy gifts. And after Finnick's Games, the Careers' mentors always made sure their Tributes went after Four first if they were not allies. In a way, he had damaged her chances before she was even Reaped.

Finnick halfheartedly flipped through a few different strategies in his mind. Her best bet would be an alliance with the Careers, but he doubted she could pull that off. Allying with other Tributes wouldn't do, that would make her a bigger target for the Careers. It was too bad Triston seemed unlikely to take Annie under his wing: he could make a powerful protector. Some girls played the Games that way. They found a stronger male Tribute and flirted with him, formed an alliance with him and stuck with him until someone else killed him. Those girls usually made it pretty far in the Games, though Finnick couldn't remember the last time one of the won. The girls who won the Games were nearly always fierce, unbelievably strong competitors like Yvonne had been. Or they had a unique hidden skill that allowed them to survive in conditions others could not. Finnick looked Annie over doubtfully. Unless she had the ability to turn invisible, there was little that would save her.

"Who will be mentoring who?" Triston's voice broke Finnick's musings.

So no talk of joint Training then? Yes, Triston definitely had no plans to help Annie out. "I'll be taking Annie, you'll have Mags."

Triston's mouth dropped in outrage. "What? I thought I would be training with you?" Now he finally looked at Mags with an expression of undisguised frustration. "I'm a Career, I'm supposed to have the best Mentor, not some old lady."

It was too bad for Triston that he said this to Finnick and not Bruce as Yvonne had done. For Bruce only possessed the slightest of respect for Mags, while Finnick absolutely adored her. "Being a Career only means that you were trained for the Games up until this point, it means nothing now. You may have special treatment from sponsors, but you'll get none from us." What is it just him, or did Annie relax at those words? "That being said, Mags _is_ the better mentor between the two of us. She's possibly the best out of all the Victors. You're not getting her because you're a Career; you're getting her because here in Four we try to assign mentors based on each Tribute's weaknesses. I've only just met you and my first impression of you is that you're impatient, you're foolish and you're inconsiderate. You should be glad I'm not your mentor, because I already don't like you. Mags, on the other hand, is much more forgiving."

Finally Triston was quiet. Mags gave Finnick knowing looks while he sawed away at his smoked salmon bagel. That was no way to talk to a boy who may die in a few days. He knew that, but he could feel the blackness encroaching on his soul with every passing mile. He was drowning in apprehension and gut-turning anxiety. Within the day, they would be at the Capitol and it would drag Finnick in like the Kraken of old legends. He could feel its tentacles pulling him under now. His only wish was that he would drown.

He was now sawing at the plate under his bagel. Mags was listening attentively to something Triston was saying while Dora flitted about on the other side of compartment. None of them noticed. Finnick looked up to see sea-green eyes, the same color as his, staring intently at him. He gave Annie an embarrassed smile and a wink, expecting her to color prettily and look away. Instead she frowned before turning her attention back to her own plate.

They passed through the tunnel that connected District Three to District Two. Finnick felt his head disappear beneath the water.

 _Please just let me drown_.

* * *

 

He was whisked away as soon as he set foot on Capitol soil. There was a Capitol official in the crowd, nodding and beckoning to him subtly. Finnick turned toward the rest of the entourage. "Well, I'll see you all later. I've got some _business_ to take care of." He winked at them and headed off, catching a glimpse of Annie staring at him dolefully when he glanced back. Everyone knew what business he was referring to, there was no use hiding it. His only job was to ensure they all thought it was by choice.

Finnick was hurried through the Remake Center, before any of the Tributes arrived and given directions to his first client. They didn't bother with Peacekeepers anymore. He hadn't misbehaved since that first encounter with Paprik. Just like Snow had demanded, Finnick kept his head down.

Sometimes literally.

Long gone was the shy boy who had to be told what to do. Now he knew every role by heart: submissive, dominant, lecherous, knowledgeable…he had truly become a sex god. Except there was nothing holy about the way he fucked. That was the work of a devil. Sometimes Finnick was secretly glad his mother was dead. She never had to see the disgusting person – no, creature – he'd become.

He missed the Tributes being remade and the chariots. When he arrived back at the Remake Center, he could see they had once again gone with the mermaid theme. It appeared that Mags had been allowed to have some say, because Triston had a fishnet shirt covering his upper body and Annie was wearing a crop top rather than two seashells placed strategically over her breasts.

"How'd it go?" He directed the question to both Tributes.

"Pretty good." Triston replied. "Our costumes weren't as stupid as some of the others and they cheered pretty loudly for us."

Finnick gave Annie a brief look and she nodded. "I think it went well." She paused. "Why weren't you there?"

Nobody had questioned him in years. "I told you, I had some special matters to attend to."

"He means the ladies." Triston told Annie with a smirk, waggling his brows at Finnick. "Once you're a Victor, they can't get enough of you huh?" There was something in his voice, a touch of envy.

"That's right." He replied in his patented cheerful tone as he clapped Triston on the back. "That's the life you have to look forward to if you win: money, fame and all the women you could ever dream of."

Triston laughed like he knew Finnick was mocking him in some way, but his eyes were wide with the promise of a Victor's life. It was clear then that Triston was just like Dauntless, Angelique and Gregor had been. He would make a better Victor than Finnick. If Snow gave him the same offer he'd given Finnick, Triston would have probably agreed. And while he wasn't as attractive as Finnick he would still be popular. If Triston won, it would certainly take some of the attention and pressure off of Finnick. And maybe if he was greedy enough he'd willingly take on some of the male clients too…

His stomach twisted. Fuck, what was he thinking? Hoping that a seventeen-year-old boy would win the Games so he could prostitute himself to the sick people of the Capitol? Maybe the Capitol had already swallowed him and he just didn't realize it. Now he was as sick as them.

Maybe this was why Mags gave him the Tribute they both knew couldn't win. 

* * *

 

There was a huge party that night to kick off what was known as the 'Pre-Game-Season." Finnick's date for the night was Ivinni Portus: beautiful, young and extremely wealthy. She was a famous actress and his first introduction to her was seeing her picture in magazines Myron kept stashed under his bed. She possessed the dubious honor of being the first naked woman Finnick had ever seen.

"I'm not in that business anymore, of course." She told Finnick blithely after he made a dirty comment about the naked pictures. "Oh it was all glitz and glam at first, but I wanted to be taken seriously for my talents. Everybody only wanted me for my body, you wouldn't believe the toll it took on me." The fact that she said this with absolutely no irony made Finnick wonder if she had fewer brain cells than a starfish. "So I moved into the classier world of film-making." She tilted her head and whispered so close to his ear he could feel her lips near his jawline, "Now I save all of those old talents for the bedroom."

He flashed her his trademark grin. "That's what I was hoping for." He spied the bar from across the room and nodded at it. "Would you like me to grab you anything, honey?"

"Huh?" Ivinni cocked her head curiously. Apparently her talents did not include reading body language.

"From the bar." Finnick clarified. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"Oh, you're such a gentleman!" She gushed. "I'll take a Metamorphosis Sunrise, light on the ice."

"Coming right up!" He slipped his way through the crowd and effortlessly glided to the front of the line. No one stopped him. "One Metamorphosis Sunrise, light on the ice and a double shot of vodka." He always snuck as much alcohol as he could into his patrons' drinks. The drunker they were, the drunker _he_ could be. And sometimes they passed out on their own, so all that was required of him was to strip them of their clothes, take off his own, trash the room, tangle the covers and wake up naked next to them for them to believe they'd experienced a truly legendary night with Finnick Odair. Those were the mornings he left whistling.

"So the rumors are true, you _are_ secretly a woman." There was a familiar voice. He turned to see Brutus, the most ferocious mentor of all, sitting at the bar.

"And a scotch on the rocks." Finnick added to the bartender, before giving Brutus his full attention. " So, excited for another year? Your Tributes look particularly vicious."

Brutus was good: he only puffed up slightly, but otherwise didn't let the ego-boost show. "District Two always brings the best Tributes. We're the best, everyone knows that."

"About time for you guys to bring another Victor." Finnick accepted his drink and Ivinni's frothy pink one from the bartender. "It's been what – four years now?"

"Better than your five."

"Ah, but we never claimed to be the best." He teased. It was always entertaining to make light of Brutus. Mostly because he had always been a dick to Finnick and one-on-one bantering was not his forte – he was much more confident when he had his Career friends to back him up. "Must have been embarrassing, losing back to back to One. And they look like they came to win again this year."

Brutus scowled. It was true; both Tributes from District One were larger than any of the others. "My Tributes are more skilled in combat and survival – and those airheads from District One are just as stupid as you." He cocked his head. "That boy of yours, he's not bad. Career?"

"Definitely." There was no point hiding it. Triston's best chance in the Arena would be if the others believed him to be a strong ally and a worthy opponent. There would definitely be no hiding out in the woods for him. "He'd probably be interested in joining the Pack. You should have your Tributes check him out."

A hand slinked around his shoulders. "Finnick, sweetie, what's taking so long?" Ivinni grabbed her drink and took an enormous gulp. "I was simply _dying_ of thirst."

He doubted it. "Sorry, we just caught up talking about boring mentor things." He kissed her on the cheek. "Nothing of interest to you, my dear."

"Oh, nonsense!" Ivinni giggled. "I absolutely _love_ talking about the new Tributes. All the ones from Districts One, Two and Four looked positively _stunning_." She sipped on her drink again. "Your boy looked so strong, Finnick! And your girl – she was gorgeous. Not as gorgeous as you, of course."

Finnick shrugged and grinned playfully, though an uncomfortable prickling went down his back. "Of course not, no one's as beautiful as I am."

Ivinni giggled louder and Brutus's scowl deepened. "I'm serious, she could be quite a sensation in the Capitol if she won. She has those same eyes as yours, that everyone just _adores_." She sighed dreamily. Finnick's stomach clenched. "Sea-green. So _beautiful._ Please tell me she's every bit as talented as you."

Brutus was listening to the conversation once again, now that it had turned to one of actual substance. Finnick shook his head in a dramatically sad fashion, well aware that Brutus was watching him. "She's fish food, I'm afraid." He told Ivinni, shrugging. "Not a Career, didn't volunteer. She has absolutely no training, I don't think she's ever so much as touched a weapon before. I doubt she'll make it past the Cornucopia. It's a pity, but it means I'll have more free time in the Capitol this year."

"Well, we're always glad to have you, Finnick." Ivinni told him as Brutus walked away, having gleaned the information he wanted. Finnick watched him go as Ivinni trailed kisses down his neck, knowing that he'd just sabotaged any chance Annie had of joining the Career pack.

For some reason, that thought made the sick feeling in his stomach go away.

* * *

 

The next morning, Finnick strolled into the Training Center at 9:45, to see Annie sitting on the couch in the living room, tapping her foot and looking nervous.

"What are you still doing here?" He questioned her, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl in front of her and sitting down.

She blinked in confusion, drawing his attention to her eyes. They were rather similar to her own, though greener and larger. "I was waiting for you." She informed him. "You're my mentor, you're supposed to give me advice before training."

"Oh." Finnick racked his brains guiltily and realized he hadn't told Annie anything about what to expect from training. In fact, he hadn't much spoken to her at all. "I figured Mags would take you." He stood up with a sigh. Here he'd been hoping to catch a couple hours of rest. Well, he could spare ten minutes to walk her down. "Come on, let's go. The arrogant Tributes can pull off being late, but if you're late they'll think you spent the last five minutes throwing up."

Annie wrinkled her nose and stood up. "Not likely. I've only ever thrown up one time, when I had the flu. I have a strong stomach."

"Huh, that's interesting." Finnick remarked absently. "I guess I have a weak one then, I throw up whenever I get nervous."

She laughed unexpectedly. "Finnick Odair gets nervous?"

"Only occasionally." He winked at her. "But it's disgusting when it happens, I _wish_ I had a strong stomach. That's a real virtue. Too bad it won't do you much good in the Arena."

"Maybe it will." Annie put in. There was a dangerous optimism in her voice. "You never know."

"Hmm." They fell into silence as they walked. More than anything, he wanted to take a bath and scrub the oils Ivinni had insisted upon out of his skin. And then sleep. For a year. Or at least the next few days, so that Annie could be dead and he wouldn't have to get to know her at all before that happened.

Annie was not going to make that easy for him. "So what should I do in training?" She sounded so anxious, so utterly dependent on his guidance. He wished she would just give up.

"Train." He told her and was startled that she managed to roll her eyes at him. "Okay, have you handled a weapon before?" She shook her head. "Normally I'd say don't show your weakest skill to others, but you need to get all the practice with a weapon you can get. Go with a short sword – something long enough that you can use it to hold off any other weapon, but not so long it becomes difficult to maneuver. All the survival skills in the world won't help you if you can't defend yourself." And three days of training was not going to teach Annie to hold her own against trained killers. She had to know that.

Instead of becoming defeated, though, Annie nodded fervently. "Okay, short sword. Got it." They reached the entranceway and she looked up at him again. "What about alliances?" She asked awkwardly. "District Four, we're usually in the Career pack, right?"

"Usually, but your best bet is to stay on your own. Stay away from the Careers. If they came near you in the Arena, you'd be dead." She looked at him doubtfully. "I didn't make any alliances either." He also survived off of sponsor gifts that no one else got, and had the training to defend himself.

"Okay." She still looked dubious but nodded and stepped forward. The doors slid open and Finnick caught a glimpse of the huge Career from District One slicing a dummy in half.

 

He was able to achieve a few hours of sleep before they summoned him again. Ivinni wanted him to accompany her to a charming afternoon tea at the Secretary of State's mansion. They screwed in the coat closet while the Secretary's daughter performed a violin solo. Then there was another party, where he was instructed to pick up a man with yellow skin. Sometimes his patrons paid him to bump into them and flirt with them as if completely on accident before going home with them. As if he would ever deliberately chase down this man with pudgy cheeks and hair so overly-greased it stuck to his head like a helmet.

It was well past midnight when he made it back. Everyone was asleep, including Mags. After his family was killed, she'd asked him why he kept doing this. He'd told her he was afraid they'd kill him if he stopped. As if he didn't want to die every day. If she ever found out it was only her life standing between him and freedom, she would kill herself. Mags was one of the few truly good things left in the world. Protecting her was worth everything, so he avoided the conversation about his true motives and above all never let her suspect that he would much rather be dead.

Shaking off these dark thoughts, he poured himself a straight glass of whiskey. Haymitch, the drunken victor from Twelve, seemed to have it right. Alcohol made everything better. He downed the drink quickly, squeezing his eyes shut to get it over with. He'd never liked the taste and the stinging sensation it made as it slide down his throat was even worse. But unless he gave in to Morphling like those sad addicts from Six, this was the only medication he would have.

"Doesn't look like you're enjoying that." Annie's voice echoed his thoughts as she crept out from behind the doorway.

He raised his eyebrows at her, internally groaning. _Just go away, I don't want to see you right now._ "How long have you been there?"

She walked across the room hesitantly. "Since I heard you come in." She stopped in front of him and tilted her head. "Why do drink if you don't like it?"

"It's the only booze readily available." Finnick answered honestly. He was too tired to make up elaborate lies. "Except for those weird concoctions these Capitol people like." He'd learned long ago not to trust those. He liked their sweetness, but most certainly did not like the strange chemicals they mixed in. Particularly paralysis drugs.

"I don't really like alcohol at all." _Stop telling me things; I don't want to know you_. Annie stepped closer, wrinkling her nose. "I don't like the taste, I don't like how stupid it makes people and I don't like not feeling in control."

Finnick was never in control. The alcohol just helped him forget that. "I like beer. Beer tastes good." _You should try it sometime_ almost slips off his lips before he remembers. He looked down into his glass with a frown. "This stuff is too strong though. It tastes like shit."

"So why drink it then?" She pressed, ignoring his attempts to redirect the conversation.

He shrugged. "Because it feels good."

There was that doubtful look. "Does it?"

Numb felt good compared to agony. "Sure." He grabbed the bottle to pour himself more. "You should sleep."

Something other than doubt was in her eyes. Almost like worry? Finnick nearly laughed at the thought. This girl was going to be dead in a few days. She definitely wasn't worried about his drinking habits. "Okay," She told him, walking back to her room. Hesitantly, she turned back. "You should sleep too."

He nearly dropped the glass. She _was_ worried about him. He didn't think he'd ever met anyone so selfless. Shit, she was going to be slaughtered in the Arena. And worst of all, now he was going to probably care.

* * *

 

Finnick was glad he was busy for the next two days. He joined Mags, Triston, Dora and Annie for a few meals and discussed alliance strategies with Triston, but that was the extent of their interaction. Some of his appointments had to do with PR for Snow, attending events to show his approval and draw crowds.

Most of them were just fucking, though.

One of them was Scarlett Fiestman, an old woman who was so obviously surgically enhanced to appear young again it was disgusting. Afterward she looked around in her purse, searching for some sort of token she'd meant to give him.

"Oh no, I must have left it at home!" She fell back against the bed, looking absolutely distraught. "I can't believe it, how absolutely inconsiderate of me!"

Sometimes Finnick wanted to laugh at the absurdities of Capitol etiquette. Buying a blackmailed prostitute? No problem. But forgetting to tip him or give an extravagant gift afterward? _Catastrophe_. "It's okay Scarlett," His lips ghosted over her navel. "I don't need anything." And really, his acceptance of gifts was a courtesy to them. He had more money than he ever needed. Their money and gifts had never stopped feeling dirty to him. He preferred it when they didn't bother.

"But you don't even get paid." He could almost hear the tinniest hint of guilt in her voice. "And you've given me such a _wonderful_ gift." Her hands fisted in his hair. "I feel like I must return the favor." She let out a little gasp. "Oh, I know. I can share a secret with you."

Finnick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't give a damn about Capitol gossip; most of it was worthless to him. "Do tell."

"I don't know if you know this, but I was the Head Gamemaker once." Finnick did _not_ know this and he felt infinitely worse about touching her now. Gamemakers were sick, despicable excuses for human beings. If this was her secret, he wished she'd kept it to herself. "I stepped down ten years ago – the only Gamemaker in history to willingly do so – because I was afraid there would be investigations into my Game decisions and I would be killed."

This was a little more interesting. "Killed?" He echoed, cocking his head like a confused little District boy.

She stroked his hair softly. It occurred to Finnick that if she had made her way to the Head Gamemaker position and stepped down ten years ago, she was old enough to be his mother, if not his grandmother. "Oh yes, the Head Gamemaker is a very dangerous job, very dangerous indeed. And I had good reason to fear, because I allowed myself to be bribed and rigged the Arena so that a certain Tribute would win."

"How so?" He questioned, heart beating faster at this information. He hadn't known such a thing was possible.

Scarlett laughed. "I had reason to favor the girl from Eight – the mayor offered me a bribe. So the finale was a pack of mutts that were genetically programmed to go for the largest Tributes first. She was the smallest, so she survived." Scarlett shook her head, smiling with relief. "It feels so good to get that off my chest, you have no idea how long I carried that around."

Finnick remembered those Games, and remembered Myron grumbling about the unfairness of it all – that was before Myron's last Reaping. At the time he hadn't even suspected it could have been rigged. The Hunger Games were a reminder that the Capitol was in control. They were untouchable, inflexible. But all the mayor of Eight had to do was make a _bribe_ …

This sort of knowledge was rare and precious. It was _power_. Control.

"So did you like my gift?" Scarlett demanded breathlessly, leaning up with her lips puckered.

His only response was to passionately catch them.

* * *

 

He wasn't able to advise Annie before her private training with the Gamemakers. So he was a little curious what she'd done to pull off a six.

"I went through every injury I could think of and told them how I would treat it using the supplies in the Training room." She told him as they sat alone in her bedroom on the last day before the Games. Mags was advising Triston separately. "I demonstrated my stitching abilities, made a splint with tree-bark and twigs, and showed them how to sanitize everything with a fire. I didn't think they were very impressed."

"Still, a six that's…" _better than I would have thought._

"Triston got a ten."

 _Triston has a real chance of winning_. "They always give more points to the Tributes who demonstrate combat skills. A six is really high for not even touching a weapon."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "High enough for the Careers to want me in their pack?"

Finnick frowned. "I thought I told you not to join their pack?"

"I know, but I–" Annie bit her lip, looking incredibly frustrated. "Do you not want me to win?"

Her sudden intensity shocked him. Finnick actually did a double take. "What? I'm your mentor; of course I want you to win." But she was looking at him with a fierceness he had not known her to possess. "Christ, I know I haven't been here much and I know you don't think very highly of me, but I can assure you that I'm doing everything I can do get you out of there alive."

"No you aren't." Annie cut through his bullshit without a second thought. "You never asked me about my skills, what I was actually good at. You just saw I wasn't a Career and gave up on me. You never _bothered_ to find out that I've been apprenticing with my Aunt as a nurse for nearly ten years. You haven't given me advice for getting sponsors, or making allies or impressing the Gamemakers. You're never here if I have a question." Her words were like vicious waves of truth crashing against him. He was a shitty mentor. He'd written her off to die. Annie shook her head at him. "You know, Triston was completely wrong about him getting the raw end of the deal. At least Mags _tries_. At least she's _here_."

It was completely and utterly unfair, but Finnick found himself getting angry with this girl who was going to die. "I'm trying my best." He snapped at her. "But being a Victor is not as easy as it looks. I have obligations, things beside you that I have to take care of."

"I could die tomorrow!" Annie cried, showing true fear for the first time since her Reaping. "Your most important obligation should be making sure that doesn't happen!"

"Well, it's not!"

"What could possibly be more important than saving someone's life?"

Finnick laughed. It was not his Capitol chuckle, not his sheepish, or hearty laugh. It was cold, wild and out of control. "You think if I made you a Victor I'd be _saving your life_? You really think you'd have a life worth saving at that point? If you became a Victor, your life wouldn't be worth _shit_. You'd spend every single day wishing you had died in that Arena because death, God, _anything_ , has to be better than living in this motherfucking world!"

Silence. Finnick's words echoed off the walls and his face turned white, knowing without a doubt that the room was bugged. Surely they wouldn't punish Mags for his lapse, for breaking down in front of a damned girl? If they did bring forth some sort of retribution, Finnick only prayed it would be to bring him the death he'd practically begged for.

"This is what I was afraid of." Annie whispered, drawing Finnick's attention. "I've been watching you when you're here. You smile and laugh but when you think no one's looking you start to break around the edges. The Games damaged you and caused you to forget what's so wonderful about living. And it terrifies me, because the one person who's supposed to be responsible for my safety doesn't recognize the value of life."

"Annie," Finnick whispered urgently, keeping his voice low even though he knew there was no sound too quiet for bugs to pick up. "It's not just the Games, you have to understand that. If you won, they would take _everything_ from you." He paused, trying to find a way to explain to this determined yet innocent girl without completely destroying her. "Imagine that you're a knot. The Games take that knot and unravel it. And every time you try to put yourself back together, every time you think you're almost whole again, the Capitol comes along and gives you a tug, and you're unraveled again. And eventually you just _stop_ trying to fix it because you know it's useless. That's what being a Victor is. This isn't me just saying that being a Victor is not as great as it looks, or that your life won't be as good as it was before. I'm saying that it's not worth _anything_." He ran his hands through his hair, well aware that he was destroying hours of Ravari's work. "For you to win…you'd have to push yourself to the absolute breaking point. You'd go through hell. And ninety-eight percent of it would have to be sheer luck while the remaining two percent would be me spending every waking moment getting sponsor gifts for you and monitoring you – _which I can't do_." He looked up at her, shaking his head. "And all that, for a life that's not worth living? That would be the cruelest thing I could do to you."

Annie took one of his hands from his hair and pulled it away gently, not forcefully. "Thank you." She told him, clasping his hand between her own.

"For what?" He couldn't help staring down at their entwined hands.

"For helping me prepare for my interview." 

* * *

 

The lights of the stage were resplendent as always. Caesar's hair was purple this time, and his suit matched. The crowd was cheering politely for District Three's male Tribute as he left the stage, though they were much quieter than they were for One and Two.

"She's next." Mags whispered to him. "What angle is she going to play?"

"You'll see." Finnick shot her a mysterious grin, hiding his terror. He had no idea what Annie was going to do. She'd shut out all his attempts to extract her plan and his ideas for what she _should_ do. He'd hissed at her that public denouncement of the Games was a stupid, dangerous idea, and she'd better not repeat anything he'd said about a Victor's life being shitty.

Forget worrying about the room being bugged. Finnick was now concerned Annie would share his treasonous views with the entire country.

She walked onto the stage, lovely in her sea-green dress. When she first walked backstage with it on, Finnick had squirmed when he realized it matched her eyes, those District Four eyes the Capitol was so taken with. Thankfully it was much classier than the girl from District Two's dress, which had a neckline down to her navel. Annie's stylist was far more sensible than Ravari.

But he wasn't concerned with how she appeared. He was concerned with what she'd _say_. His eyes stayed trained to the screen backstage as Caesar gallantly gestured for Annie to take a seat.

"Annie Cresta, I must say you look beautiful, like a goddess of the sea." He gushed. "Now, District Four is a wealthy District so do you get the chance to dress up like this for parties back home?"

Of course not. No one outside of the Capitol wore finery like that, not even in District One.

"I'm afraid not." Annie looked down at the dress. "But, you know I'm actually a rather simple girl. I'm much more comfortable in simple clothing. And these heels–" She stretched out her foot in dismay. "My stylist had to teach me how to walk in them. I've never worn any before!" That earned a laugh from the audience and she laughed gently with them. There were no cheers or screams. Her presence seemed to calm the crowd.

"Well, you look fabulous in them. You should wear them more often!" Caesar grinned at her. "Maybe you will, if you become the Victor?"

Finnick sucked in a deep breath. God damnit. Here it came.

Annie tilted her head to the side. "I hope so." She told him. "Because I'd like to learn to walk properly in them. You know what else I'd like to learn?" She asked Caesar.

"What else?" He prompted, humoring her.

"My mother's shrimp and grits recipe. The secret behind my neighbor's beautiful garden – ours always gets so tangled with weeds and hers stays perfect. The name of every star. How to weave a fishing net without any tangles. What my brother got on his history test. The ending to the book I was reading the night before my Reaping. What it feels like to wake up next to the same person every morning, watch his eyelashes flutter open and just say, 'Hi.'"

The crowd was silent save for a few murmurs, seeming to unconsciously recognize they'd heard something incredibly beautiful and profound, but not knowing how to respond to that. Caesar himself was subdued and thoughtful with his next question. "Why those things specifically?"

Annie looked directly at the camera. Finnick couldn't look away. "Because those are the small things, the tiny moments and pleasures that make life worth living. Those are the things that – even when we are broken and feel completely lost – tie us to reality and keep us moving forward. Those are the things I will be holding on to during the Games, and for every single moment afterward."

"So you're saying you plan to win?" Caesar asked her, trying to steer the interview back to the more traditional route.

She nodded. "I plan to survive. I will always survive because I know there is always something worth fighting for. Even when I think I'm trying as hard as I can, I will push myself harder. Because there's _always_ something more you can do."

There was no doubt about it. She was speaking to Finnick. She was begging him – no _ordering him_ – to put his life back together so he could save hers.

" _And ninety-eight percent of it would have to be sheer luck while the remaining two percent would be me spending every waking moment getting sponsor gifts for you and monitoring you – which I can't do."_

Yes he could.


	4. We will find you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, remember the note from last chapter? That actually applied to this chapter...but I'm too lazy to move it.   
> Oh well.

"I've got a new plan." Finnick grabbed Annie's arm and dragged her around the corner. She looked at him with what could only be described as pure hope and he felt a pang of guilt. That was the first time he'd seen that expression on her face. "Okay, I've a _plan_." He confessed, admitting that he'd never really given her a plan in the first place.

"What is it?"

"You're going to ally with the Career pack."

* * *

 

 "Brutus!" He spied the bald head that towered over ever one else's turn. Finnick skidded to a halt, trying not to look like he'd just desperately chased him down, even though he absolutely had. Brutus was accompanied by Sasha and Luster, the mentors from One, and Lyme, his fellow Two mentor.

"Odair." Brutus looked irritated that he'd interrupted their conversation.

"I need to talk to you about the pack."

"Your boy looked good up there," Lyme told him. She was hard and disciplined, meaning she generally didn't have time for Finnick's shenanigans, but she was far more down-to-earth than most Careers so he liked her regardless of her disdain for him. "No need to worry. The alliance is secure."

"I'm not talking about Triston." Triston, with his score of ten, lifetime of training, spectacular interview and, let's face it, _Mags_ , did not need any extra help. "I'm talking about Annie."

Sasha actually laughed. "That pathetic thing?" She cooed. "You'll be lucky if she makes it past the Bloodbath this year. Though, if you're smart, you'll tell her not to go near the Cornucopia."

 _Thank you for that sage wisdom._ "She's not much of a fighter, that's obvious." He said instead. "But guess what skill she used for her private session with the Gamemakers?"

"What?" Brutus took the bait, looking bored.

"Healing." Finally he seemed to have a little of their attention. "She apprenticed under a nurse for over half her life. She's exactly the sort of ally you want in your pack – useful, but not a threat."

"She only got a six." Luster said doubtfully. "She can't be that good."

He turned to Luster with mock sympathy on his face, knowing there had to be at least some jesting involved or they would be suspicious of his earnestness. "Well Luster, you're new to this so I'll explain how it works." Luster was a decade older than Finnick and won his games before him. But this was his first time mentoring so he was technically the newbie of the bunch. "The Gamemakers are biased toward weaponry skills and feats of strength, particularly when judging Districts One, Two and Four. For demonstrating a skill that didn't have anything to do with combat, a six is pretty damn high."

Lyme folded her arms. "A six for healing is good, there's no doubt about that. But our Tributes are strong this year. They don't need a weak link dragging them down."

"Your Tributes were strong last year too." Finnick pointed out. "But what did your girl die from? Oh yeah: _infection_. If there'd been a healer in your pack – or anyone with half a brain, really – that would have never happened."

"I'm for it." Brutus put in first, surprising all of them. "She's not a threat, she'll never win. If she wants to play nurse with the big boys, let her."

Sasha and Luster nodded their assent. Only Lyme looked suspicious. "You have to know she can't win." She told Finnick. "She'll die once the pack turns on each other, probably even before. And you were against her joining the pack at the beginning. What do you have to gain now?"

 _Hope_. "I have a large bet on her surviving until the final ten." He said instead, winking at them. "If I win, the company of the most beautiful woman in Panem will be mine."

"I thought _you_ were the most beautiful woman in Panem." Luster looked to approval from Brutus, who conceded a small smile. Ah. That was their private little joke, was it?

Finnick rose above and focused on Lyme. "What do you say?" She was the senior Career here. Her consent was the one he really needed.

She nodded. "Got it. Just don't pull any funny business, Odair."

He fixed a confused expression on his face. "What could I possibly do? I would have to go into the Arena myself and defend her to make sure she got out alive." 

* * *

 

"But how can I be sure the Careers won't kill me once my back is turned?" Now Annie sounded nervous. "You were right, I'm completely defenseless."

"Triston isn't." 

* * *

 

Triston stared at him and furrowed his eyebrows. "Is this a joke?"

"Would I ever joke about something this serious?" Finnick demanded. "Don't answer that. No, this isn't a joke. I want you to join up with Annie."

The shorter male shook his head, as if he were trying to get water out of his ears. "I'm already allied with the Career pack. That's the plan Mags and I made from the beginning." There was respect in his voice when he talked about Mags now. Finnick decided that in spite of his initial judgment on the boy, he was a reasonable human being. That would make his job easier.

"Annie is too." He informed Triston. "They're taking her in for her healing skills. But she'll be defenseless in there. She needs somebody to watch her back. That'll be your job."

"Okay, I get what she gets out of this." Triston met Finnick's eyes squarely. "And if we're both in the Career pack she'll be expected to heal me too. So what do _I_ get?"

"Someone to watch _your_ back." Finnick replied. "She may not be much of a fighter, but she can at least warn you about an attack. Trust me, you don't want to go into the pack with nobody having any semblance of loyalty to you. You'll be the first to go. The Career pack is always made up of teams and the strays they take in. The strays almost never win. You need to be in a team. And as their healer, Annie will have value to them."

Triston shifted uncomfortably. "Ok, I get what you're saying, it makes some sense. And I sort of know why you're pushing for this now, I mean that speech…" He seemed to struggle with himself. "She's a good person, isn't she?" He sounded rather upset at the knowledge. Finnick suddenly realized he hadn't been the only person avoiding Annie these last few days.

"She is, and that's why you need her." Finnick had almost gotten through to him, he could feel it. "As a good person and someone from your home District, she'll help keep you sane. She'll be somebody you can talk to."

"Like a friend?" Triston spoke the word like it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever heard. "What if I have to kill her?"

"You won't." Finnick promised him falsely. For all he knew, it could come down to the two of them. "You know as well as I do she can't survive on her own. Once the pack breaks up, you two split off from the rest. And then you split off from each other."

"So if you think she's going to die anyway, what's the point?"

"My job as a mentor is to make sure she has the best chance of survival. And it just so happens that her best chance is your best chance."

* * *

 "But once Triston abandons me, what do I do?"

"You run. You hide. You stay away from the other Tributes. Don't go after supplies at the Feast, don't try to steal them from anyone else. I'll send you everything you need."

"I thought you said you wouldn't be able to do that?"

"I figured out a way." 

* * *

"Mr. Odair." For once, Snow did not sound like he was expecting him. "What a pleasant surprise."

 _I'm so sure._ "President Snow." Finnick sat down on the armchair across the coffee table from Snow. It was nearly midnight so when he'd arrived at the President's mansion and asked to see him, they'd escorted him to a living room where Snow was sipping tea, rather than his office. "Could we possibly skip the niceties and go straight to business?"

"Certainly. I'd like to keep this short. What possessed you to barge into my home and demand to see me so late in the evening?"

Finnick would hardly call convincing the guards to let him speak to Snow 'barging in.' Still, he could see that Snow was irritated. He had to tread carefully. "I'm sorry, but if I waited until tomorrow the Games would have started. Then it would have been too late."

"Too late for what?"

"For me to request the Games off."

Silence. Finnick was aware of how ridiculous his words sounded as they bounced around the room. God, he hoped this would work. Finally, Snow spoke. "I assume you are not speaking of your mentoring duties?"

"Yes." Snow, as always, was on track with the conversation. "I need to focus more on mentoring. Half my Tributes have gotten killed while I've been away on other business. It's bad for District Four's image and therefore bad for mine." _Which makes me less valuable_ , was the unspoken understanding between them. That was what Finnick was banking on Snow actually caring about.

"So you want me to cancel all your prepaid appointments?" Snow's voice was disapproving and doubtful. Somehow Finnick knew he was actually considering it.

"If at all possible." Finnick looked down. He was submissive, asking a favor from Snow, not manipulating him. There was no manipulating the Devil. "I would be in your debt." Which was the position Finnick least wanted to be in and Snow most wanted him in.

"Why are you coming to me with this?" Snow questioned. "Your handlers are the ones who deal with your day to day activities."

"I knew they didn't have the power to give me the entire Games off. Only you do." Snow was in control. He was always in control.

Snow regarded him. He shook his head and Finnick's heart dropped. "I'm afraid it's not possible. It's too last minute. Maybe next year." He waved Finnick away.

 _There's always something you can do._ "The other mentors are starting to notice," He blurted out. "Pretty soon they'll realize I'm not doing it by choice. And the one's who don't know better yet will talk and then everyone will know. If Mags finds out why I'm doing this, she'll kill herself." It was strange to speak these truths to the person he trusted least in the world. "And if she goes, I'm done. No more money to fill your coiffeurs with. I'll kill myself too."

Snow laughed. "You think we can't prevent that?"

"Not if you want me to keep fucking, no." Finnick told him bluntly. "The only way to stop me from killing myself would be to institutionalize me. And there's nothing sexy about a mental patient." He drew in a deep breath and stuck out his hand. "No patrons during the Games. Do we have a deal?"

That was it: that was everything he had. Snow looked amused more than anything else and Finnick wondered if he'd been tricked into revealing something. "We do." Snow told him without shaking his hand. "Now get out of my house."

* * *

"What about the finale?"

Finnick was quiet. That was the one thing he hadn't quite figured out. "I don't know yet." He admitted. "The only advice on that I can give you is that when you're running form anything, watch where you're running to. If the Tributes aren't fighting each other at the end, most times they'll try to force you together. Avoid this for as long as you can. If you can't, just rely on your instincts when you fight." She looked terrified. "I know that sounds stupid, but most of fighting is instinct. Especially when it's the end and everyone is exhausted and weak. In the end the most important thing is who is the healthiest. So stay healthy, stay safe and I'll try to save as much money from sponsors as I can to help you in the finale." He shrugged. "That's all I can do."

Annie reached forward and hugged him. "That's everything." 

* * *

The mentors gathered in the Watching Room, their eyes peeled on the screens. This was the first time in two years Finnick had sat with the other mentors at the start, rather than entertaining a Capitol patron at the Hunger Games Launch Party. Wiress, the mentor from District Three, cast him a nervous and surprised eye. He guessed she'd become used to having an empty seat beside her and only hoped she wouldn't draw attention to it.

The arena was a canyon. The Tributes probably couldn't see from their vantage point, but it was a giant bowl wrinkled with ridges and cliffs, surrounded by a reservoir of water held back by a circular dam that looked too high to climb. Finnick assumed this was to make sure the Tributes couldn't reach the force field, because so many people complained about all the Tributes who died hitting the force field. The water didn't look very accessible and he wondered how they would get to it.

"Dry arena." He commented to Mags, who nodded.

"Unless they can get to that water, it's going to be all about the sponsors."

"That would be too boring, there's got to be a trick to it." He squinted, trying to get a closer look but it was impossible to tell. They'd have to wait until the Tributes reached the dam.

The Cornucopia was on a raised plateau, higher than the Tributes surrounding it. Any Tribute not in the Career pack had better have the good sense to duck behind a rock formation. Even if they managed to escape the Cornucopia unscathed, the Careers would have the high ground and would kill them as they ran away.

On that point, one of the Careers would need to get to the Cornucopia first to ensure it was their territory. If even one other Tribute managed to get there before them, they could do some heavy damage to the pack.

The camera zoomed in on the male Tribute from District Two: Tiberius. He was the favorite, with good reason. He may not have been as big as Flux from District One, but Brutus was right about Flux being an airhead. His interview had been one of the least inspiring Finnick had ever seen from District One – and that was _saying something_. Tiberius was average height and toned, with the sneakiness of a snake. There was spark behind his life, an active brain. One that was programmed to kill.

Finnick hoped Tiberius wasn't the first one to the Cornucopia. He wouldn't put it past him to kill Annie on her way there despite his mentor's advice.

The other District Two Tribute, Theta, was more likely to stick to the alliance. She was shorter than Annie but obviously stronger. Word was she was a skilled swordsman, which was unusual for a girl from Two. Usually they went for knives: they were quicker and they could maintain their distance if they wanted. She radiated lethalness during her interview and Finnick wouldn't have doubted if she was the most intelligent Tribute of the lot. She would recognize Annie's value.

The camera switched to Annie and Claudius Templesmith said something about the touching girl who moved the audience to tears last night. Her teeth were gritted tightly and she was focused on the Cornucopia. Finnick curled his hands into a fist. She was going for it. She was sticking to the plan.

Everyone drew in a collective breath as the countdown hit ten seconds. No matter how much they joked and tried to distance themselves, they couldn't escape the tension of this moment. Even Haymitch sat up straighter and set his glass down.

Five. Four. Three. Two. Two. One.

"Let the Seventieth Hunger Games begin!"

At least half the Tributes sprinted toward the Cornucopia. Tiberius, Triston, Flux, Theta and the boy from District Ten were in the lead. Some of the Tributes who realized they weren't going to beat the Careers stopped in their tracks and fled the other way. Now there were only nine. Annie was toward the rear but not as slow as the boy from Twelve.

Triston reached the Cornucopia first and Finnick resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air. He grabbed a bow and quiver, pulling an arrow taught against the string before aiming it toward Annie.

"Jesus Mags, your Tribute's turning on his District early, isn't he?" Blight from District Seven asked.

 _He'd better not be._ Finnick tensed as Triston's sure-aimed arrow whizzed past Annie and hit the girl from District Nine in the leg. The girl staggered and limped as quickly away as she could. Rather than finish her off, Triston ran around the Cornucopia to help Flux up onto the Plateau. He seemed determined to prove his worth to the alliance.

The boy from District Ten had made it to the Cornucopia right after Triston on the other side. He was currently engaged in a vicious battle with Theta, who was clawing her way up even as he held her off with a knife. While the boy was engaged with Theta, Tiberius pulled himself up and grabbed an axe from the pile. Before the District Ten boy knew Tiberius was there, the axe was buried into his back and the cannon boomed while Tiberius pulled his District partner up.

Triston left Flux to help Velvet, the District One girl, and came back around. "Grab my hand." He told Annie, helping her up onto the plateau.

The District Twelve boy was the last to arrive. He stopped at the edge of the plateau and froze as all six faces of the Career pack looked down on him.

"Who wants it?" Tiberius asked casually.

Triston shot the boy in the throat before it could become a discussion.

"Look at you, Four." Crooned Velvet. "Or should I say 'Triston.' You've got that killer instinct after all. Seriously, who invited your girlfriend though?"

All five heads turned toward Annie. Finnick cursed inwardly when she instinctively jerked back. "I'm not his girlfriend."

"She's my friend." Triston interrupted coolly. "And I was under the impression you'd already accepted her into the alliance?"

"Our mentors did." Tiberius answered, taking a challenging step toward Triston. "But they never saw how pathetic she was in Training. I'm shocked she even managed to scrape by with a six. I was expecting about a two. She's probably the worst Tribute I've seen from Four in a long time, and that's saying something."

He moved closer, his axe glistening with blood. To his credit, Triston didn't back down. "She can treat wounds, I'm sure your mentor told you that." He nodded towards Theta's bloodied leg. "And it looks like she's already going to come in handy."

Theta scoffed, upset that he'd pointed out her weakness so early. "This is nothing. It's just superficial." The amount of blood pooling on the floor and her inability to stand on it contradicted her statement.

"Wouldn't you like it to stay that way? Or would you like it to become infected?" Triston addressed Tiberius again: "And wouldn't it suck to have your District partner out of the game so quickly?"

"I'll have to kill her eventually anyway." Tiberius said callously, but Finnick could see his mind working. Just as he'd told Triston earlier, no one wanted to be in the Career pack by themselves. He'd be the odd man out and the first one they turned on when it split up. He eyed Triston and Annie. "This whole thing is pretty suspicious to me. She's pathetic all through Training, there's no talk from anyone about joining with her and suddenly at the last minute her mentor comes along talking about this magical healing ability? And now you're in on it too? And now _my_ District partner happen to be injured?"

"Okay, that's probably a little too paranoid." Flux tried to step in on this power struggle. He should have known he was too thick to compete.

Tiberius laughed. "There's no such thing as too paranoid. This is the Hunger Games and I'm going to be the Victor. Everyone's out to get me." Well that was one way to play it: announce yourself the Victor from the beginning. Some sponsors loved it. But others would surely turn their noses up at that display of arrogance. This was good, Finnick could use this to Annie's advantage.

If she survived the next five minutes…

"Just let her look at Theta's leg." Triston reasoned. "If she can treat it, you'll know she's worth keeping around. If not, then just kill her and have done with it." He turned to Annie. "You _can_ do it right?"

Annie swallowed nervously. "Yes. Theta could you lie down against the Cornucopia please? I'll go look for supplies."

"Tiberius, watch her." Theta instructed as she struggled to the ground.

"And I'll watch you." Triston told her as he discarded his arrow and bow to pull out his preferred weapon of choice – a spear – from the pile of weapons surrounding the Cornucopia. He pointed it at Theta and looked at Tiberius challengingly. "Go on, Annie."

Finnick held his breath the whole time Annie searched around the Cornucopia, digging through backpacks and containers. He didn't trust Tiberius for a second.

Fortunately Annie was able to impress them when she cleaned the wound with alcohol, created a small fire to sanitize the needle and thread she found, and unflinchingly sewed Theta's leg wound back together even as the tough Tribute from District Two screamed words that had to cause mothers all over Panem to cover their children's ears. She whispered soothing words to Theta as she wrapped a bandage around the injury, and then placed a cool pack on the bandage before wrapping that as well. "It should go pretty numb in a few minutes." She told Theta apologetically, who was hissing between her teeth.

"Not bad." Tiberius admitted, folding his arms. "All right, Theta and I will stay behind to guard the Cornucopia. The rest of you should go hunt."

"And let us kill off all your competition?" Questioned Flux. "That doesn't seem fair."

"That's because it's not." Replied Triston, frowning at Tiberius. "And once we kill all of them and come back for supplies, he'll have the high-ground to hold us back from the Cornucopia."

Well there was just not a lot of trust going around the Career pack was there?

"I'll stay with Theta." Velvet offered, grabbing the bow and arrow Triston had tossed aside. "It's way too early for us to be turning on each other. And I'm the best shot among us." Ah, District One, the voice of reason. Not a phrase often uttered.

The boys sized her up. Finnick had to give her credit for throwing herself into what had up until that point been an all-male power struggle.

"Okay." Tiberius allowed. "But we're leaving the District Four girl with you too, what's her name–"

"Annie." Annie told him patiently.

He scowled. "Annie, you're staying here so that all of us are split up. Besides, you'd be useless on the hunt and Theta might need you to check up on her leg."

"God damnit Tiberius, stop making me sound pathetic!" Theta growled at him. "I don't need a babysitter, I could hold off every other Tribute by myself."

Flux shook his head. "It's too much of a risk. Having those supplies it what separates 'us' and 'them.' We lose that advantage, we could lose the Games."

No one pointed out that five of them were going to lose anyway. 

* * *

 

Finnick watched Annie talking gently to Theta, whose dressing she was changing. The wound around the stitches had turned a healthy looking pink rather than garish purple, so he assumed Annie had treated it correctly. Velvet was stationed on top of the Cornucopia, constantly turning so she could see everything. The sun was setting over the arena.

"I hope the boys found water." Velvet announced. Three more cannons had gone off. The mentors and audience knew it was the girl from Nine, the boy from Seven and the girl from Twelve – Haymitch had thrown his flask at the screen at that point. For all the girls waiting at the Cornucopia knew, they could be all that was left of the Career pack.

Annie nodded, looking up from Theta's wound. "Me too." She glanced worriedly at Theta's drooping eyelids. "She lost so much blood, she might fall unconscious without any water."

"Why are you being kind to her?" Demanded Velvet. "If she's not tough enough to get through this on her own, she's not worth having as an ally."

"Just because we're in the Arena doesn't mean we have to give up human compassion completely." Annie pointed out. "It's natural to provide someone with comfort when they're suffering."

A pang hit Finnick's heart. She was so unquestionably _good_. She possessed the sort of purity that Myron claimed Finnick had. If he'd ever had it, then he'd definitely lost it by now. But Finnick didn't think he'd ever had it as strongly as Annie did. He had kept his tucked away in secret, like a weakness he was afraid to reveal. Annie radiated it.

Even someone like Velvet, who was raised as something other than human, sensed that goodness. "They stamp that out of us in Career training. If someone's suffering then you step over them to the finish line."

"How lonely for you." Annie remarked.

They said nothing else until the boys got back from hunting.

There was still no water.

* * *

It was the second day and everyone was starting to get dehydrated. Finnick and the other Career mentors sent down a joint sponsor gift of six water bottles – no one wanted the pack to break up on the second day over water – and though the Tributes tried to ration it, they soon found themselves on their last drops.

"That boy from Seven, he had water." Triston told them. "We searched all around the middle of the Arena. I think the water's somewhere at the perimeter."

 _Good boy, gold star for you_. Unfortunately the other Careers were not so impressed. It took all the influence Triston had to convince them to make the trek. Flux stayed behind.

At this point, Finnick and the other mentors knew what they needed to do to get at the water. There were a few hidden ladders that went up the side. The other Tributes who ran to the edge of the Arena had discovered them first and were currently guarding them. This was an advantage distinctly meant for them.

The boy and girl from Eleven were guarding one such ladder when they heard the Careers trooping forth. They gave each other one look and bolted.

"What's this?" Velvet ran her hands over the rungs in confusion. They'd decided that the wall – they couldn't see that it was really a dam – was meant to keep them away from the force field. "An exit?"

Theta snorted despite her white face. "Of course not, you idiot. The Gamemakers don't make exits. Then everyone would just escape."

Tiberius pointed his axe at Annie. "Climb it, Four."

"I think you mean 'Annie.'" Triston told him tightly. "And would you stop treating her like she's a hostage? She's in the alliance, she's proved her worth."

Triston was doing much better at this protector thing than Finnick had ever dreamed. If he made it out instead of Annie, he may just get a clap on the back instead of a punch in the face.

"I know that," Tiberius smiled. "But she's also the worst with weapons and less likely to turn on us from the high ground." Still, he kept a tight grip on his axe as Annie climbed the ladder.

She laughed once she reached the top, her voice ringing with relief. "It's water." She told them. "A reservoir."

"Is it any good?" Velvet called back up.

Annie tentatively touched her fingers to the water and examined them. Then she scooped a bit up and tasted it. "It's fresh!" She cried out. "Hand me some canteens, I'll fill them."

They passed every canteen and possible container for water they could find. When she handed them back down, Triston took them from her, his hand steadying her back. Finally when she was finished she took once look at the water and dove.

It must have been such a relief from the overwhelming heat. She resurfaced, smiling widely and looking like a true girl from District Four.

"What are you doing?" Demanded Velvet fearfully.

"Taking a bath." Annie called back. "It feels so great, you should come on in."

Triston climbed the ladder as well, keeping a careful eye on Tiberius and Velvet who hung back. "Is the water deep enough to stand in?" Tiberius asked.

"No." Annie replied, paddling about. "Why, can't you swim?" Tiberius didn't say anything as Triston jumped in from the edge of the dam, forming a cannonball that splashed all over Annie. Some of it made its way to Velvet, Theta and Tiberius, who flinched. "You could hang on over the side." Annie suggested, but the others were wise not to go anywhere near the happily splashing District Four Tributes.

Back at the Cornucopia, the pair from District Eleven had made their way to the center. After a brief scuffle that killed both the girl and Flux, the boy claimed ownership over the Cornucopia.

Theta died on the seventh day. Her wound was healing along nicely but she was still slower than the others and when they were attacked by a tidal wave of some sort of scorpion mutts, she fell behind and the rest of the group heard her screams for about a minute before they stopped and the cannon boomed. Tiberius never looked back.

He did, however, look suspiciously at Triston and Annie, the only pair left in their group. 

* * *

On the eleventh day of the Games, Triston and Annie sat up and whispered alone in their corner of the cave well after the other Careers fell asleep.

"What do you miss most about home?" She asked him as she squirmed uncomfortably on the cold floor. Finnick, who was half-asleep himself on one of the gilded cots set up in the Watching Room, absently flicked through the gift catalogue and checked the price for a jacket. Christ. He'd have to do some serious networking for that. And he would have to wait until she was on her own, otherwise Tiberius would try to take it from her and finally ignite the fight that had been brewing in the pack since the beginning. He turned to Mags who was asleep in the cot next to his. Their hands were entwined, dangling between their cots.

Triston was crouching against a pillar, not even bothering to even try sleeping. This was the point when they most had to worry about someone slitting their throats in the night. Triston and Annie had agreed to part ways separately from the pack when it was down to the final eight. There had been no deaths for three days: everyone was getting restless. Velvet refused to let any of them out of her sight, for fear they would sneak up behind her and stab her in the back. Tiberius kept sharpening his axe, glaring at the rest of the alliance as if daring them to attack him. Even Triston had been showing signs of anxiety. But as he sat talking to Annie about District Four, there were none. "I think people expect me to say the ocean." He told her comfortably. "But the thing is, I never really went to the ocean much. I spent most of my time in Training. When I hung out with my friends and my girl, we never went to the docks or the beach like the normal kids. We ran off into the woods and pretended we were in the Games."

"Your girl." Repeated Annie. "Katri Galloway, right? We were in the same class before she went to Training."

"Yeah." Triston breathed. "I think…" He was quiet for a long moment. "I think I might miss her most of all about home. This probably isn't the right place to say it – it sounds cheap, like I'm using it for sponsors."

"Not if it's real." Annie smiled. It was a radiant smile, the sort you never saw in the Games. "When something's real, nothing can touch it. You can't fake it. If what you feel is real, then she'll know."

Triston returned her smile and stood up. He craned his head and seemed to be looking up through the tunnel winding up to the sky. "Katri, I think I love you." He whispered into the night. "And when I come home, I'm going to marry you. If you'll have me." He added almost shyly, sounding for the first time like the young boy he truly was.

"I hope you do." Annie confessed. "I hope one of us makes it home. That way if I die, I'll die peacefully knowing that you'll be going home to your love."

He crouched down over her and grasped her hands, his smile wider now. "One of us _is_ going to make it home, Annie. I can feel it. We're the only team left in the alliance. We're the healthiest and the strongest. One of us is going to win."

Her lips curved as she closed her eyes blissfully. "I think you could be right," She whispered, opening her eyes again.

Just in time to see the axe cleave Triston's head clear off.

"Fuck me!" Chaff exclaimed as the cannon went off. Cecilia jerked up out of her cot and screamed at the sight of Triston's head rolling on the cavern floor. Mags, old reliable Mags who wasn't shaken by anything anymore, squeezed Finnick's hand so hard she accidentally drew blood.

The pain was a good thing. It brought him out of his shock.

"God damnit!" He jumped up from his cot and scrambled to the screen. Inspecting it didn't change the scene. Triston's head was cleanly separated from his body. Tiberius was grinning sickly, his axe swinging casually in his hands. And Annie was just laying there, covered in Triston's blood. Eyes impossibly wide. Not moving. Just staring at Triston's head.

"Huh." Finnick heard from the corner and that was all he needed to pounce on Brutus, dragging him up from his chair and pushing him against the wall.

"Control your fucking Tribute!" He screamed at the larger and older mentor, who he'd momentarily caught off guard. Momentarily, but not for long. Brutus shoved him off and decked him across the face. His nose made a strange squishing noise and there was pain but Finnick and pain had come to an understanding years ago. He snarled and lunged at Brutus again, scratching at his neck savagely and kneeing him in the groin. Brutus retaliated with a push that sent him sprawling into the nearest cot. More blood, but Finnick didn't care, he just needed one punch, one hit to wipe that smirk off Brutus's face.

Surprisingly it was Haymitch who came between the two as an unlikely mediator. Or more accurately, it was Haymitch who bodily pulled Finnick off of Brutus while Lyme stepped in to stop Brutus from going after them. "Easy now, kid." His words were surprisingly sharp and focused, considering all the alcohol he'd drowned himself in that day. "Wouldn't want him _completely_ breaking your face."

Finnick shrugged him off angrily, but Haymitch's words had the desired effect. He was in control once again. The fury was still there though. "Beheading?" He demanded of Brutus. " _That's_ what you teach in District Two? He couldn't have stabbed him in back or anything? He had to cut off _his fucking head_?"

Brutus snarled at him. There was blood on his neck, which helped sate Finnick's bloodlust. Slightly. "If I were you, I'd be more worried about your living Tribute than your dead one."

That was when the wail sounded that woke everyone up who hadn't already been roused by Triston's beheading, his cannon and the subsequent fight. It was an unearthly wail, the sound that only ghosts made. The hair on the back of Finnick's neck literally stood up as he turned to see Annie clutching her head, eyes wide and unseeing, her entire body shaking as if the temperature had dropped fifty degrees.

His heart sunk. "Annie…"

Tiberius was walking toward her. "Shame about his girl." He said conversationally. "Explains why you two never fucked. I always figured that you were in love with Odair or something, but _Triston_ was the one who wasn't interested. Makes more sense. I always thought you were fucking pathetic anyway." He raised his axe, grinning.

Annie wail turned into a scream, filled with all the rage, hate and grief no one would ever thought that sweet girl could be capable of. She evaded Tiberius's axe and went straight for his eyes, scratching them, digging her thumbs into them. His scream mingled with hers as he clutched his bloodied, oozing eyes.

"You bitch!" His cry was half horror, half fury. He reached blindly for his axe but Annie was on her feet and running past him, out of the cave. Velvet had long-since fled their camp. Annie ran alone through the canyons, her eyes wild and her head jerking around looking up, down, left, right, expecting someone to fly out at her.

Eventually she found a secluded corner and stopped, curling up into a ball and shaking. Her hands went over her ears and she kept repeating "No, no, no" over and over again, the tones shifting like some sort of strange ditty. The whole time her eyes stayed open, flitting around to assess the danger. But there was nothing behind them.

Annie was gone. 

* * *

 

Finnick watched Annie on the projection screen. He was sitting at the top of the Training Center, hoping that the cold air would jolt him back to reality and make him think of a plan. He'd just spent the last hour sending Annie all sorts of sponsor gifts, trying to make her do something other than just clutch her head and rock back and forth. She'd let the parachutes float down around her. One of them even landed on her head and she didn't bother to bat it away: it just slid off her and clattered to the floor. Almost his entire budget was gone.

The little alcove she was huddled in was far away from the other Tributes. Most of them were stationed near the dam. Velvet was making her way back to the Cornucopia, preparing to fight the boy who'd killed Flux. Tiberius was wandering in the cave Annie had left him in. Finnick couldn't tell if he was fully blinded or only partially, but he was definitely relying on touch more than sight at this point. Brutus immediately sent him medicine for his eyes, shooting Finnick glares as if this was all _his_ fault. He'd never taught Annie to go for the eyes. That had just been her instinct.

He heard someone come up behind him and turned around. "What do you want?" It was rude, definitely more bitter and petulant that Capitol Finnick should have been. He was just too damned tired and empty to play his role.

Besides, Haymitch definitely was not a tool for the Capitol. He never did anything for Snow other than come here every year and watch a few Tributes die. Snow killed every single person in his life a long time ago. The frightening thing was, Finnick could see himself standing in Haymitch's shoes not too long from now.

"Wanted to make sure you weren't an idiot enough to jump." Haymitch settled down next to him.

Finnick shrugged. "There's a force field there. Everyone knows that."

"True. But every now and then someone surprises me and tries." Haymitch regarded him. "Just like you surprised me when you attacked Brutus. Here I was thinking you were on _their_ side."

Finnick couldn't help it. He snorted. " _Their_ side?"

"Yeah." Haymitch took a swig from his flask. Finnick wondered if he'd ever seen Haymitch without something to drink in his hand. His memories came up short. "The Careers. Them versus everyone else. That divide doesn't end after the Games."

No it did not. Finnick just didn't care because he had his own problems dividing him from everyone else. "I'm not on anyone's side." He told Haymitch.

"Just your own, huh?"

 _I'm on my side_ least _of all._ "Sure." Finnick said instead, wrapping his arms around his legs. This probably made him look very small and child-like, but he didn't care about impressing Haymitch. He just wanted the older Victor to leave him alone to his thoughts.

"She's not going to make it out of there." Haymitch almost sounded sympathetic. "There's nothing else you can do."

Finnick finally looked him in the eyes. "There's _always_ something more you can do." 

* * *

 

He got the call on the morning of the thirteenth day. Cecelia called him awake hesitantly – they all knew better than to rouse a sleeping Victor, after all. His eyes fluttered open to see her anxious face over him.

He shot up, his back aching after falling asleep in his chair. "What happened?" Finnick's gaze swept the screens. Annie was hardly moving in her nook, but she was still alive and alone.

"You have a call." She gestured to the phone. "A sponsor."

A sponsor? Finnick had been calling in favors for days, making promises and cutting deals that he probably didn't have the authority to follow through on. For all his efforts the money had been trickling in agonizingly slowly. Annie was not responding to anything he sent her. They'd seen him waste sponsor money and more importantly, they said she was never going to make it. There was nobody willing to sponsor Annie. And there was _definitely_ nobody calling him about it.

Finnick practically tripped over his own feet in his rush to the phone. "Hello?" He asked, hating how fatigued his voice was.

"Hi, is this Annie's mentor?"There was a familiar lilt to that voice. It was definitely not a Capitol accent. Could this woman be from District Four or was it just his imagination?

He leaned against the wall. "Yes, this is Finnick Odair speaking. May I ask who this is?"

"Abigail Cresta." Finnick closed his eyes. Shit. "I'm Annie's mother."

After a long moment, his tongue unstuck to the top of his mouth and he forced it to work. "Hi Mrs. Cresta." His own District Four accent slipped in without him even trying. Or maybe he'd just stopped bothering to suppress it. He paused again, trying to figure out what to say. _How are you doing?_ seemed inappropriate given the circumstances. "What do you need?"

 _My daughter back_ , he expected her to say, but she did not. "I stayed awake all night watching the Games." Mrs. Cresta whispered. "I haven't been able to sleep much since, well…" _Me too_ , Finnick wanted to say. He stayed quiet and listened. "And she just doesn't seem to be there anymore. She needs something to tie her back to reality."

Finnick ran a hand through his hair. He was startled to discover it was actually greasy, which Ravari never allowed while he was in the Capitol. "I know. I was hoping she might respond to some of the sponsor gifts but she didn't even open them." He'd sent her everything in the gift catalogue that could possibly remind her of home. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what else I can do for her."

He hoped he sounded genuine. Mrs. Cresta like everyone else in the world had to know of his reputation. She wouldn't have been pleased to learn that he was the one responsible for Annie's safety. It was important to Finnick that she know he truly did care.

"I had an idea." Mrs. Cresta told him, her voice becoming stronger. "Is it possible to send something down without a container? So that she could see it without opening it?"

"I don't know." Finnick replied wearily. "It would probably take a lot of arm-pulling on my end but I'd be willing to do that." He'd be willing to do anything at this point. "Did you have a specific gift in mind?"

"Yes." She sounded more hopeful now. "I remembered something from her interview – Annie said she wanted to live because she wanted to learn my shrimp and grits recipe. Would it be possible to send that to her?"

Now there was an idea. Unfortunately, it couldn't be done. "No." The regret in his voice was impossible to fake. "We can put in a request for a special gift, one that's not in the catalogue – mentors pick gifts out of a catalogue," He explained to her, "But that gift has to be something we can buy in the Capitol. It can't be anything delivered from the District and it definitely can't be a hand-written, unpublished recipe. For all they know, we could put a secret code into the recipe about where the other Tributes are located, or what dangers are coming her way. I'm sorry. It really was a good idea."

"Oh." Now she sounded just as defeated as Finnick. Excellent. "I was just…" Her voice was choked with tears. "I was so _proud_ of my baby girl when she went onstage. So many Tributes lie and pretend to be someone they're not, in what could be the last time their families hear them speak, you know?"

"Yes ma'am." Oh, Finnick definitely knew _all_ about that.

"But she got up there and she was so beautiful and so completely _Annie_. She amazed everyone just being herself, speaking words that I could tell were from her heart. There she was, prepared to fight to the death and she was just so…" There was a muffled sob. "So _Annie_. And I know that she's in there still, she has to be. I have two other children: an older girl and a younger boy. My husband died years ago. Felicia and Drew…they always struggled with that. It was like they didn't know who to be without a father." Her words were clawing closer to Finnick's heart, too close for comfort. "Annie, though, she knew. She always did. She never drowned in the bigger picture of who she was supposed to be. She was wise and knew that it was the little things, the little moments that made her who she was."

"She still is." Finnick cut in, unable to bear the way Mrs. Cresta was talking about Annie in past tense. "She still is that way. I…" His throat was thick. "I haven't known her for very long but she's…" _Touched me. Changed me. Healed me. Saved me?_ "…Made an impression on me in just that short time. She's a special person. I'm sure you've seen that in the arena too."

"Yes." Mrs. Cresta was half-laughing, half-crying. "That poor District One girl didn't know what to do with her!"

Finnick laughed as well at the memory of Velvet's absolute befuddlement at Annie's kindness. She looked at her as if Annie were some sort of fantastical creature, a character from a fairy tale…

His eyes widened. "Mrs. Cresta, do you know what book Annie was reading the night before the Reaping?"

It took Mrs. Cresta a moment to reply. "Yes… 'The Odyssey,' I believe. A very old story, older than time. Annie found it among her father's old things and just had to read it."

"Okay, I've had a thought." Finnick could almost taste the adrenaline electrifying his revelation. "If I could track down a copy of that book in the Capitol, I may be able to get them to accept it as a special gift. And then I'll convince them to let me send it down without a container. That may be enough to pull Annie back."

"That's brilliant!" Mrs. Cresta cried, sounding incredibly impressed. "Oh, but that will cost so much money, I'm sure. And I'm sure all those gifts you already sent her have depleted your funds." She hesitated. "A man came by the docks the other day, asking about our boat. I'm sure that would be enough-"

"No." Finnick told her firmly. He was _not_ going to let Mrs. Cresta sell her boat on a venture that may not be possible, probably was not going to help Annie at all and even if it did wouldn't guarantee her survival. "Don't worry about the money, I've got that handled."

"Are you sure?" There was a mix of relief and worry in Mrs. Cresta's voice. "Because it's not that much trouble – I would gladly sell my house and the clothes off my back for the slightest chance of bringing Annie home."

The maternal love was so powerful it was hurting Finnick. "Yes, I'm sure." He hoped his voice was firm enough. He could get the money, faster and easier than Mrs. Cresta could. "Mrs. Cresta, thank you so much."

"No, _thank you_!" Mrs. Cresta was astonished, he could hear it. "She's my daughter, I'm expected to do this sort of thing. But I'm so happy that you care so much about bringing her home."

"It's my job as a mentor, ma'am." As he said these words, Finnick could almost feel every single eye in the room looking at him suspiciously. He'd never done anything like this before. Hell, he'd never even stayed in the Training Center for a full day before this year. They could all gladly fuck off and mind their own business.

Finnick knew whose side he was on.

Annie's. 

* * *

 

Making the arrangements for the book and the lack of container was difficult. What was _more_ difficult was making them with only the promise of money to come. In Finnick's entire time of mentoring, his sponsorship funds had never run this low.

"Just get everything ready, alright?" He snapped into the phone. He'd been staying on the District Four floor since Mrs. Cresta called him, for privacy. It was tradition for all the mentors to watch together, mostly so they could strategize together, make bets and beat each others' faces in when their Tributes lost. If a mentor stayed away, the other's suspected he or she was plotting something. It didn't matter to Finnick at this point: they knew exactly what he was plotting. They just didn't know how he planned to obtain it. "I'll have the money for you in just a few hours." He said as he buttoned his shirt, leaving about half of them undone.

"Alright." The gift-manager's voice was grudging. "But we're not dropping anything until the money is in our funds. And if you don't give us the money, we're going to charge you personally for all these expenses."

"Whatever. I'll have it for you soon." Finnick shut off the phone. They could charge whatever they wanted to him, he had more money than any person should have. Unfortunately it was absolutely forbidden for mentors to sponsor their Tributes. Some mentors found a way around that, giving bribes to other people for sponsoring their Tributes. They got in massive trouble when they were caught, though.

No, Finnick had a more effective form of bribery.

He met Eloise Halspeth for lunch in her manor's garden and told her all about Annie and the book he wanted to send her. She was well cultured for a Capitol woman and actually knew the book that Mrs. Cresta mentioned. "I absolutely _adore_ Greek mythology," She told Finnick who nodded as if he understood what she was saying, "Your girl must be very smart to be into that sort of reading material."

"The smartest." Finnick agreed, rubbing Eloise's thigh under the table. "And kind, too. Remember how she treated that girl's leg?" Eloise nodded. "Don't you think someone like her ought to be shown a bit of compassion while _she's_ vulnerable?"

Eloise smiled at him and he could tell she was seriously thinking about it. "You've never seemed very sentimental about your Tributes to me, Finnick. What makes this girl special, compared to all the Careers you've trained?"

"I have a weakness for sweet things." He whispered to her, like he was telling her his darkest secret.

She cupped his chin. "You're not telling me you desire the girl, are you?"

It took a great deal of strength to control his stomach's upheaval. _Desire_ and _Annie_ were two thoughts that did not belong in the same world as each other. "God no." He told her truthfully. "I don't lust after little girls."

"Whom do you lust for?" Eloise whispered into his ear.

He brushed his lips against her cheek. "Women."

And that was it: he had her.

Finnick felt strange when they collapsed against Eloise's plush couch (she'd been unable to make it to the bedroom). He'd wrangled deals with his handlers before to cut down his price for certain individuals who sponsored his Tributes. Many of the sponsors who poured in at the beginning were either patrons he'd serviced or mistaken people who believed that was the way to earn his favor. Sometimes he talked about Tributes during an appointment and his clients promised to sponsor them.

But he'd never outright traded sex for sponsorship money before. It made him feel dirtier, more like a whore than he'd ever felt. It also gave him a sense of power and control. _He_ was the one gaining from this, not the Capitol. Which made him worry about possible repercussions from Snow. What would he say about Finnick insisting he have the Games off only to service a woman of his own volition, for his own profit?

This was making him feel many things and Finnick didn't have time for any of them. He needed to focus: Eloise had already agreed on an amount, he just needed to make sure she transferred it to his funds before he left.

She was proving to be chatty, unfortunately.

"I haven't done that for a long time." She sighed, not bothering to cover herself with a couch cushion or blanket. The windows were wide open and there were gardeners in the lawn. "Not since my divorce."

Clearly she wanted to confide in him. Finnick decided to humor her, hoping it would make the conversation go by faster. "Your divorce?" He prompted.

"Yes, I got divorced six months ago, it was a dreadful affair." She sighed tragically. "It was all very hush-hush, what with my ex-husband's job and everything."

She wanted him to ask. "What was his job?"

"Oh, he's the Head Gamemaker." As always, Finnick felt a cold rush of apprehension even at the mention of such a monster. "Crusis Lascius – you can understand why I didn't want to keep his last name, it's a bear to pronounce. It came as such a shock – we seemed to be doing so well – until I discovered a few secrets he'd been hiding from me."

Finnick remembered the secret Scarlett had told him and the feeling of power he'd gained in learning it. "What secrets?"

She leaned in close. "First of all, he preferred males and was seeing a few others on the side." She shook her head. "But that in itself wouldn't have been a problem. I know many men who prefer their own sex. And obviously they're going to have to fulfill those needs on the side – after all, it's not as if they could marry a man!" She laughed at her own joke. "The problem was _who_ he was seeing. They were boys – some not too young, about your age, but some definitely underage. Regardless, he had a taste for young boys. And when he couldn't find any willing to satisfy his needs, he'd take one unwillingly." She shuddered. Finnick hadn't imagined it. "And several years back, he was so violent he actually _killed_ a boy in the throes of passion. Yes, I know, horrible isn't it?" She took in Finnick's queasy expression, mistaking it for natural disgust rather than familiar horror. When he'd first begun, there had been a few times with some of the more violent customers – such as Paprik – that he'd actually feared for his life. Eloise's story hit too close to home.

"That's awful." Finnick finally managed. His body felt very still and he could feel the faint stirrings of one of those panic attacks he hadn't gotten in a long time. He clenched his muscles and willing himself to ride it out. If he frightened Eloise now, she might not donate the money he needed. All his effort went toward suppressing the anxiety. _You're good, you're good, you're good,_ Finnick reassured himself.

Fortunately, Eloise didn't require anything more from him at the moment. "Needless to say, when I discovered this I wanted to go to the Peacekeepers. He tried to stop me, offered me a ridiculous amount of money to keep quiet. Eventually he gave me a divorce and nearly every penny he owned. Six months later, he's still practically broke." Her voice was childish and gleeful. "And I think between being worried I'll rat him out, keeping busy to try to pay the bills and simply not having enough money to pay anyone for their company, he's been having a miserable, lonely time of it. He just recently got engaged to the most horrible, ugly woman, just for her money! Serves him right."

 _Serves him right_. No, what would serve him right would be _prison_. Finnick's entire being was clambering for justice for that dead boy. There was no use. What could he do? If he went to the Peacekeepers and told them, they'd laugh in his face. He could let it slip to President Snow, but the old bastard probably already knew and was using it for blackmail.

There was nothing Finnick could do but try to shove that unwanted information deep into the recesses of his brain and focus on lighter things. "Well, I'm glad you got all of that money, Eloise." He told her, forcing a smile. "Now you can put it toward a worthy cause. You can show your ex-husband how much _better_ of a person you are."

Eloise stroked his face, looking peaceful. "It's like you were sent from God to help me atone for his sins." She breathed. "Let me make that call."

* * *

It was past four o'clock when the book floated down toward Annie. The camera zoomed in on it immediately, since it was such an unusual gift. What was a book doing in the Arena? Claudius Templesmith speculated. Did it have some sort of special meaning?

It drifted right down in front of Annie's face. She still didn't move and for a few heart wrenching seconds Finnick didn't think she even knew it was there. Slowly though, she lifted her head up and removed one of her hands from her ears. She was gaunt and shivering after not eating or drinking for nearly two days. Her hand quaked as she reached for the book, which was lying face down. It took her a few moments to summon the strength to turn it over. When she did, her lips released a hoarse cry.

Cladius Templesmith announced to the audience that this was the book she'd been reading before she was reaped and in the corner of the screen they played a brief clip of her speech about what she had to live for. This was the main reason they'd agreed to let Finnick do this: it was dramatic and made for great viewing.

Annie tentatively unwound herself for the first time in days. Her other hand reached for the book and she lifted it toward her. She brought it to her nose and simply smelled the pages. Then she began thumbing through it knowingly, until she reached a point near the end. Her lips quivered as she read, tears running down her face. Just as Finnick was thinking that she was wasting the precious water she had in her body, she turned and rummaged through the scattered gifts around her. She pocketed the seaweed rolls and dried fruit before finding the large canteen of water and drinking from it.

Finnick felt himself unwind now. She was drinking. Then she was eating. She was keeping herself alive, putting herself back together to read the book. Eventually the sun set and there was no more light by which she could read. So she tucked the book under her arms and closed her eyes, finally sleeping through the night.

She finished the book the next day. Once she shut its spine he was worried she would retreat back into herself, that she had only been living to know how the story ended. But she kept eating. She kept drinking. She fell asleep again that night.

She was alive again.


	5. Acting on your best behavior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title...creepily fits this chapter somehow.  
> Seriously, if you can't handle somewhat graphic depictions of rape, turn back now. Don't read this.

It was time for the Games to be finished. Ignotius, the boy from District Nine and this year's dark horse, was beginning to run out of lizards to hunt from his camp at the perimeter. Velvet, who had claimed ownership of the Cornucopia and lost an ear in the process, had nearly run through the horn's meager supplies. Tiberius's eyes were healing slowly, thanks to Brutus's medicine, and he spent his days pointlessly wasting energy climbing rock formations in an effort to scour the Arena and find Annie.

Annie was living in her private world, safe in the little nook on the other side of the Arena from the other Tributes. She drank and ate and occasionally stretched her aching limbs, but she was clearly not going to compete in the Games again. Her eyes would oscillate between hysterical and darting, to vacant and lifeless. Her hands remained at her side and away from her ears fortunately, but she would laugh and make noises at things that were not there.

"Well of course _you_ would think that." She spoke one day out of the blue, startling all of the mentors in the Watching Room. Aside from Tiberius's occasional swears of frustration, none of the Tributes had spoken for days. It had to make for very boring television, which made Finnick wonder what the Gamemakers were waiting for. Where was the natural disaster that would draw them all together? Tiberius had still been blind for the Feast, Ignotius had too comfortable of a camp set up to need anything, and Annie was practically catatonic. Velvet had made quick work of the pair from District Five and that was the last bit of excitement in the Games.

"They want Two to win." Betee murmured, figuring out the puzzle before any of them. "They're waiting for his eyes to heal and then they'll set something in motion."

Brutus looked pleased at this and shot Finnick a hateful look. Haymitch may have stopped them from tearing each other apart, but something told Finnick this feud was only beginning. Rather than pump his blood with adrenaline, the thought made him weary and impatient. He didn't have time for this pettiness. He had a Tribute to bring home, a Tribute who had against all odds survived to the final four. They had now reached the point where his plan ended, the one step he hadn't figured out. Of course, his plan had fallen to shit the minute Triston was beheaded, but he'd been able to improvise and give Annie the help she needed. He couldn't help her now. He'd known from the very beginning the Finale would be up to her. Only he had hoped she would be strong from surviving off sponsorship gifts. He had never imagined she would have been drifting in and out of the world. Worse still, she was almost through all the gifts he'd sent her and he had absolutely no more funds. And at this point, he was not going to leave the room to squeeze a few coins out of a sponsor. It wouldn't be worth it.

She was going to die, Finnick was sure of it. He could at least have the decency to be here when it happened.

The saddest part of it all was that her last few days would be filled with pain and madness. Finnick didn't believe strongly in many things anymore, but he knew without a doubt that someone like Annie deserved to die with grace, peace and respect. Instead the entire world was watching her tortured last moments. He was sure the people in the Districts were horrified, and maybe some of the Capitol people too, but what did the politicians of the Capitol think? What did Snow think? What were the Gamemakers thinking as they watched this sad shell of a girl – this _wonderful_ girl who had crept into his heart like the morning mist – barely grip on to reality? They must not have seen what Finnick saw, what anyone who was human would have seen. Or maybe the problem was the other way around. Maybe the Gamemakers simply didn't think of Tributes as humans. They certainly didn't think of them as _children._ They were props in a play, pieces on a board. And to them, Annie was the chewed up, broken piece that needed to be disposed of because it had fulfilled its use. Like a toy they could just throw away.

The sun was setting and Tiberius climbed back down to the ground angrily. He still couldn't see in the dark at all, so he had to take cover under a fort of fallen rocks. The cameras loved to follow Tiberius and Finnick thought Betee was probably right. Tiberius, as the chosen favorite from the beginning and the only Tribute proactively doing anything at the moment, was the darling of the Gamemakers. They were waiting until he was in a position where he could win. Which meant that for the night, the rest of the Tributes were safe.

The cameras panned up to show the entire Arena. As always, Finnick was struck by how much like a bowl it looked like. He'd read once that canyons were created by old rivers and bodies of water washing away the rock. The maze of this Arena was a bit too intricate to have been fully designed by the Gamemakers. The basis of it was probably one they had found, before adding extra features to it – the reservoir of water being one of them. It made sense for the water to be held back the way that it was. With the shape of the Arena, any other bodies of water would have formed streams and rivers that rushed toward the center, eventually forming an island around the Cornucopia and leaving behind their former homes. That would have made for an interesting Game: if all the water started toward the edge and made its way toward the middle, changing the way the Tributes treated their resources completely. Ignotius certainly wouldn't have any sort of advantage if that had been the case. Finnick's mind imagined the wall disappearing and all the water rushing toward the center. Except no, they wouldn't do that. There was far too much water behind the circular dam, it would devastate the entire Arena, completely destroy it…

Finnick stiffened and sat up straighter in his chair. If that dam burst, it would do more than destroy the Arena. It would _flood_ it. The walls were higher, much higher than even the tallest rock formation in the Arena. There would be no climbing, no escape. The only choice would be to swim and there was only one Tribute in the Arena who could do that.

If the Arena flooded Annie would survive. She would go home and her mother could touch her again, hug her. She could learn all those things she wanted to. She would experience life and be a far better Victor than Finnick was.

Unfortunately, that would never happen. He slunk back into his seat, his heart still beating fast from his sudden revelation. It was a risky maneuver. Such a devastating event this late in the Game could kill all of the Tributes, leaving them with no Victor. Besides, the Gamemakers favored Tiberius. They knew the Tributes' strengths and weaknesses as well as Finnick and would never give Annie an advantage like that. They had no reason to favor her.

" _I had reason to favor the girl from Eight…"_

Because no one had _given_ them a reason to. Finnick found himself wondering if Tiberius's favoritism was a result of a bribe. But no, Tiberius had probably caught their eye from the very beginning. He was strong, from District Two. No one would have bothered making any deals with the Gamemakers for him. That was the sort of thing people only did for Tributes they knew wouldn't make it – like Cecilia, he suddenly realized. Or Annie.

Except there was no one out there with both the motivation and means to do so. The mayor of District Four probably had the means to do so, but not the motivation. Finnick and Mrs. Cresta both certainly had the motivation, but not the means. The Capitol tracked Finnick's bank account down to the last penny. Even if he withdrew a large amount and pretended it was for another reason, they would know. For all his fame and wealth, he was truly powerless.

" _He tried to stop me, offered me a ridiculous amount of money to keep quiet."_

No. Finnick rose from the chair. He was _not_ powerless. There were other means to accomplish what he needed, other methods he could use to sway the Gamemakers' favor. Or rather, the _Head Gamemaker's._

"Where are you going?" Mags's eyes were nervous.

He forced an easygoing smile onto his face. "Out for a walk. I need some air." He waved at the screen dismissively. "Everyone else is miles from her and the Gamemakers won't do anything drastic while Tiberius is blind. They want him to win, after all." Out of the corner of his eye, Finnick saw Brutus smirk.

Mags's hand shot out and grabbed Finnick by the wrist. "Be careful."

He patted her hand, his heart smarting at her concern. Oh, Mags. "I _did_ survive the Hunger Games you know," Finnick told her teasingly. "I think I can survive a little walk."

The unspoken words between them echoed as if they were in the Arena as well. Mags released his wrist and he tried not to seem too eager to escape her worried eyes. 

* * *

 

Finnick felt strange as he walked up the stairs to the elaborate Capitol house. He was dressed in the comfortable t-shirt he'd been sleeping in and some District Four pants he'd snuck onto the train. He'd finally washed his hair and while it wasn't greasy anymore, it was still damp and dripping slightly, without any of the highlights Ravari liked to add to it. For the first time in the Capitol, there wasn't a spot of makeup on him. If anyone looked at him closely, he was obviously Finnick Odair. But no one bothered to look at him, with his plain clothes and averted eyes. It was like Mags had said: the Capitolites were children who gravitated toward shinny objects. So once Finnick purposefully dulled his shine a bit, their eyes drifted right over him, which suited his needs perfectly.

Anonymity was the first reason behind his wardrobe change.

He knocked on the door, calming his rapidly beating heart. _You are Finnick Odair, you are a Victor, you are strong…_ none of those words helped him stay resolute. They were empty words, hollow words that meant nothing, had not meant anything for years. And why would they? He'd been an empty shell for the past few years, an oyster you cracked open to find no pearl inside. There was only one thing that had any meaning for his life now. _Annie_.

_You are doing this for Annie. You are doing this for Annie. You are doing this for Annie._

The door opened and Finnick's heart was still. He was doing this for Annie.

It took Crusis Lascius a few minutes to recognize him. "Mr. Odair." He said in surprise, looking him up and down, taking in his modest appearance. "What a surprise!"

Something strange was happening to Finnick's chest. It was expanding with relief that Lascius was here at all – he'd had no idea if the Gamemakers went home at any point during the Games, or if they slept at the Game Control Center the way mentors stayed in the Watching Room – and tightening with dread. He licked his lips nervously and stepped forward. "Can we talk somewhere?" Finnick whispered. "In private?"

Lascius glanced behind him. Finnick couldn't see anyone, but he knew from the lights that were on in the rest of the house that someone else was home. He just wasn't sure if it was Lascius's fiancée or possibly Avoxes.

"Sure." Lascius said readily, too readily for his fiancée to be there. Avoxes then. He led the way up the stairs and continued past his study – to his bedroom, probably – but Finnick stepped into the study like he hadn't notices Lascius was continuing on. A moment later Lascius appeared back in the study, an unreadable expression on his face. "You must know this is completely against the rules, of course. A mentor meeting with the Head Gamemaker."

But he was breaking the rules anyway. That was a good sign. "I know." Finnick found he didn't have to fake the hoarseness in his voice. He was so anxious it came naturally. "But I didn't know what else to do."

"Sit down." Lascius gestured to a chair and reached for a decanter filled with a dark red liquid. "Would you like a drink?"

Finnick made sure his reply was ready and grateful. "Yes, thank you." Lascius turned his back on Finnick and poured a single glass of wine. Finnick took it and tried not to wince as he quickly downed the heavy drink. It oozed down his throat like lava.

"Better?" Lascius asked him sympathetically, taking a seat next to Finnick rather than across the desk.

"Yes." Finnick nodded and set the glass down. "These Games have been so stressful, you have no idea." Lascius's position right next to him forced him to adjust his posture so that he was turned toward the Gamemaker.

"Tell me about it."

There was something eerily similar about the way Lascius prodded Finnick. It was almost akin to the way Finnick prompted his clients to tell him their secrets. "I usually do such a good job of staying impartial." Finnick told him. "Because, you know, I haven't had a Tribute make it out of the Arena yet. I'm used to thinking they're going to die. But the girl this year, Annie…" He took a deep breath and noticed how that simple action took slightly more effort than it normally would. "I started to really like her. I got too close and I started to _really care_ if she survived. That's why I made sure she was in the Career alliance at the last moment. That's why I made Triston promise to protect her. That's why I depleted all my funds to send her that book. I've just been so desperate, trying to figure out a way to bring her back." He looked at Lascius with heartbroken, pleading eyes. "And that's when I realized it was out of my control. Only Gamemakers have the ability to decide who gets to come home. You have the ultimate control."

Those words were like gold to a man like Lascius. He smiled, edging closer. "The Gamemakers don't decide everything that goes on in that Arena. You know that well…I remember your Games."

Blood everywhere. The Trident's golden coat covered in it, its prongs leaving puncture wounds in the girl from One's skin. He'd known her name once but couldn't bear to remember it. "That was different." Finnick whispered. "Everyone says it's going to be a Gamemaker caused Finale this time. And there has to be _something_ you can do that will give her an advantage."

"Now Finnick," Lascius said sternly. Finnick didn't like how he seemed to think they were on a first-name basis now. "You're not seriously suggesting I _tamper_ the Games somehow?"

Because Lascius was such an upstanding citizen who'd never do anything immoral. " _Please_." Finnick's voice quaked with despair. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I'm desperate. I can't bear the thought of her dying."

"Desperate, hmm?" Lascius leaned in closer, catching on to that word as Finnick knew he would. "How desperate?"

He leaned away from Lascius and steeled himself. _You are doing this for Annie._ "I would do _anything_." He begged. "Anything you wanted, just name it. You…you can do anything you want with me."

Lascius's hand reached forward and grabbed Finnick roughly by the hair. "Say it." He hissed. "Tell me what you'll let me do to you."

"If you let Annie live, I'll let you fuck me." He whispered, the shame practically vibrating throughout the air. There was no point in hiding it: Lascius was the Head Gamemaker, part of Snow's inner-circle and had been in charge of Finnick's Games. If anyone knew he wasn't a whore by choice, it was Lascius.

The hand twisted in his hair and Finnick allowed himself to release a cry of pain. Lascius would like that. "That's all I wanted to hear." The Gamemaker whispered, bringing his lips close to Finnick's ear. "But you know, I really don't need your permission. I can take whatever I want. And I sure as hell don't need to do something idiotic like rig the Games to get it."

Finnick tried to jerk the hand out of his hair then, but his limbs were sluggish. "Like hell you can!" He snarled, for once acting like the angry, violent Victor he truly was inside. He kicked and punched and managed to land a few solid blows on Lascius, who looked more and angry and more turned on with every beating he took. Eventually Lascius forced him against the wall, slamming him so solidly his vision actually _swam._ The dizziness was unbearable and he was certain that if Lascius wasn't holding him up, he'd slide to the floor. "What did you _do_ to me?" He tried to push against Lascius again, but the Gamemaker held him against the wall. Lascius was big and tall, taller even than Finnick, but he did not have the fighting experience Finnick did and should not have been able to overcome the furious Victor so easily.

Lascius smirked. "You'd think after all your time in the Capitol, you would have learned to be more careful accepting drinks from strangers." His smirk turned into a sneer. "But maybe they still haven't totally done away with your innocence." He pressed a large palm underneath Finnick's shirt. "Maybe you still are that poor little District Four boy deep down."

This was the second reason behind his wardrobe change.

Seduction was different with every person. For most, it was a variation on the same theme: guilty pleasures, sordid pleasures, sweet pleasures. But ultimately _pleasure_. He would run his hand up their thigh, press some kisses on the nape of their neck and treat them like something to be cherished. His stylist made him beautiful, so that the mere sight of him would bring his clients pleasure. Most Capitolites liked him that way: all worldly, corrupt and experienced. There were the rare few who preferred plainer things. They enjoyed youth and naiveté. Some of them did so because they prized innocence.

Others wanted to destroy it.

From Eloise's story, it hadn't taken Finnick long to realize that was the angle he was going to have to take this particular seduction with. He couldn't just show up and tell Lascius to take his clothes off. Lascius, who had so much to lose with a new rich fiancé he depended completely upon, would never have taken that risk. When he'd tried to lead Finnick to his bedroom, he'd been testing him. When Finnick went into the study he was certain he'd passed Lascius's task, but he also knew it had undoubtedly frustrated him. Every single move Finnick had made – from carefully selecting an outfit that radiated youth and innocence to feigning naiveté as to the cause for his sudden weakness – was for the sole purpose of pushing Lascius to this point: the point of absolutely no control.

Eloise had not been kidding when she said he was frustrated. Lascius flung Finnick against the desk with the same ferocity the boy from Two had pushed him down with at the Cornucopia blood bath. Finnick's head hit a lamp and he winced. He had the feeling he was going to come away from this with quite a few suspicious marks. If Lascius had any sense remaining in him he would have stopped there to consider the consequences of marking up the Capitol's most popular Victor's face. But he had no semblance of control left, which was what Finnick was counting on.

It still _hurt_ though. Finnick definitely did not have to fake the winces or occasional cries of pain as Lascius roughly manhandled him against the desk. Okay, maybe they were slightly exaggerated, but only because he was so used to hiding his pain. Lascius dragged off Finnick's shirt, his nails digging into his back and suddenly he became the woman with the black nails, stripping him of that satin sheet and his dignity for the first time. When he went for Finnick's pants he somehow became the Peacekeepers and Paprik all at once: the hands were definitely theirs, carelessly shoving aside his modesty, almost military-like, but his eyes were Paprik's. Greedy and hungry. Always so hungry. Finnick didn't understand it. He had never been hungry.

When he leaned over Finnick, his sweaty shirt pressing up against Finnick's bare back uncomfortably, his hands pushing his hips into the sharp wood of the desk, he became Yvonne, forcing his tongue down Finnick's throat until he was choking and crying. Finnick hadn't truly cried in years. But he was putting on a show tonight and it felt strangely good to finally show on the outside what he felt on the inside every time he fucked a patron.

The good feeling vanished when Lascius pushed himself inside of Finnick so harshly it was as if he was trying to shove right through him. _Fuck, is he trying to drill a hole or what?_ He thought sarcastically, clinging to his ability to inwardly snark his way through this. It was hard though, with Lascius continuing to increase his force. Finnick's fingernails started to hurt and he realized with surprise that he was digging them into the wood of the desk. _Good, another indisputable piece of evidence of what happened here._ He would need as much as he could get. Finnick tried to actually push himself away from the desk now, intending to escape from Lascius only to be caught once more and possibly do more damage to some of the other furniture. Only he felt real panic creep in when he found he didn't have the strength to do that. The weakness he'd been somewhat faking before had fully sunk into his bones. He'd taken an antidote to the paralysis drug before coming here, knowing that someone like Lascius was likely to use it as the only sure way to dominate a strong boy like Finnick. Unfortunately it didn't seem to be kicking in yet – he'd taken it too soon before ingesting the wine since he hadn't had time to waste. Now he regretted it: instead of just pretending the situation was out of his control, the situation was actually out of his control.

Lascius responded to his struggles to get free with even harsher movements. He buried one of his hands in Finnick's hair again and pulled his head back against his chest. "Fuck, you don't know…ah!...how long I've wanted this." His hand crept around to Finnick's face and pressed into it. "Ever, ha, ever since the Arena. When you – fuck – got that trident. The look on your, huh, face. Like you were fucking in control." His lips went around to Finnick's ear and he bit on it harshly. "I just wanted to go in there myself and _show you_ who was in control." He let out a shuddering gasp. "Who's in control?"

Finnick was busy controlling the tumultuous upheaval of his stomach at this revelation so it took a second for him to realize Lascius was actually asking him a question. "You are." He gasped out dutifully.

"Not very convincing." Lascius brought his other hand up now and yes, Finnick was definitely panicking now because the Gamemaker's hands were wrapped around his throat, choking him. Fuck, Lascius wouldn't kill him would he? Finnick's mind flashed to what Eloise had told him about that boy, the one that could have easily been him. But no, he was Finnick Odair, not some nameless forgotten boy. If Lascius killed him, Snow would bring down hell. "Who's in control?" Lascius demanded again.

 _Snow._ That would just make Lascius angrier and it wasn't true in the moment anyway. Finnick had come here in secret of his on volition, without Snow's protection. Lascius was completely crazed and wouldn't think twice about whom he was strangling if he decided to go for the kill. There was only one person in control of this encounter. "You are," Finnick choked out, his voice wheezing and small, "You are, please stop. I can't breathe."

Oddly, revoltingly, it was this admission that caused Lascius to push his way to that final burst of euphoria. He didn't collapse on Finnick or roll off like most people would have. Instead he kept pushing Finnick into the desk with his dick soft but still inside him, his hands around Finnick's neck but relaxed enough that Finnick no longer was worried about dying. When he did let go it was to stand up and shove Finnick to the ground, looking at him like he was an object. Like he wasn't even human.

"Like I said, I can take whatever I want." Lascius told him, his breath hitching. "I'm the Head Gamemaker. I can do whatever the hell I want."

Finnick's strength was slowly returning to him. At first he thought his body was just recovering from the shock of the abuse it had just endured, until he realized the dizziness was going away. "Like killing that boy?" He asked Lascius, his throat rough and ragged.

Lascius rolled his eyes. "Which one?" He pointed out casually and Finnick realized that of course he wouldn't understand what he was talking about. He was the Head Gamemaker. He killed a dozen boys every year.

"I'm not talking about the Tributes." Finnick pushed himself up with his left hand. Adrenaline was pumping through his body now and the rage in his heart was clamoring for revenge. "I'm talking about that boy you _fucked to death_."

Now the Gamemaker froze. Finnick used this opportunity to get to his feet, feeling better once they were on equal footing. Sure, he was naked while Lascius only had his pants unzipped, but nudity didn't both Finnick anymore. It hadn't for years. "I don't know what you're talking–"

"Save it. I know all about your dirty little secret. I heard it from your ex-wife." Lascius's eyes flashed. Absently Finnick hoped he never confronted her about this. She was spoiled and imperfect, but she _had_ given him the money for Annie's book. Since she had more money and friends than he, it seemed unlikely he would hurt her. "The question is, does your new wife-to-be know anything about it?" He smirked at Lascius's panicked look. "Yeah, I thought not."

"Like she'd believe anything you'd say." Lascius snarled. "You're nothing more than Snow's whore, everyone knows that."

Finnick cocked his head, grin widening, not bothering to even pretend to be offended. "Yeah they _do,_ don't they? And I'd wonder what she'd think if she were to say, walk in here and see me naked, you in that state, and – why, are those _fingernail scratches_ on that desk?" He pretended to examine the wood. "Yes, I believe they _are_."

Lascius's face faltered before a smooth mask settled over it. "Nice bluff. But I can call the Peacekeepers and get you thrown out of here before she comes home." He reached for the phone on the desk.

Finnick feigned an abashed look. "Oh, why didn't I think of that? Why didn't I, say, track your wife down at the party she was attending with her friends, eavesdrop to find out exactly when she would be returning home that night, and time everything perfectly so that she would come home right about now?"

Lascius's hand froze. He frowned. "You can't have found out exactly when she was coming home. There's traffic, she likes to stay and linger longer than necessary." He still wasn't reaching for the phone though.

"Want to find out?" Finnick challenged him. "Go ahead, call the Peacekeepers. I'd love to see her walk through your front door while they're dragging me out."

"I'll tell her the same thing I'll tell the Peacekeepers: that you came here to threaten me into rigging the Games." Lascius seemed to be resolved on his solution as he was now picking up the phone.

His body reacted without Finnick even having to think about it and this time _he_ was the one slamming Lascius into the wall. His arm was perfectly poised over Lascius's throat and his entire body weight was shifted so that there was no way the Gamemaker could escape. "See, this is how an _expert_ pins someone." Finnick told him pleasantly. "Funny how when I'm no longer drugged you're suddenly no match for me."

The Gamemaker's eyes were narrowed as he deciphered Finnick's words. "How did you overcome the drug?"

He was just as chatty as his ex-wife. This time, Finnick was more than happy to stretch this out for as long as possible. "I happen to have some experience with the paralysis drug." He informed Lascius. "And I figured a coward like you would use it. So I took an antidote beforehand. Took a little longer to work than I planned but," He grinned at Lascius, "The end result is exactly what I wanted."

Lascius squirmed in Finnick's grip. This made him happier than he cared to admit. "What do you want?"

"I told you." He explained patiently. "I want you to rig the Games so that my Tribute wins."

He could hardly blame Lascius for assuming his demand would be different. The atmosphere in the room and Finnick himself had shifted so much from when he was sitting brokenly next to Lascius, begging him to rig the Finale. From the dawning light in the Gamemaker's eyes, Finnick could tell he was starting to understand just how thoroughly everything had been planned out. "That's not going to happen." Lascius spat at him furiously.

A door opened downstairs. From the clacking noise that drifted through the study door, it certainly was not an Avox. Finnick couldn't have asked for better timing. He pushed harder against Lascius's throat. "It'd better, or you're going to find yourself broke again and possibly in prison. You won't have any cash to buy her off with this time."

"It's not possible." A hint of desperation crept through Lascius's voice. "She's too weak. There's nothing I could do that would ensure her victory."

"Flood the Arena." Finnick ordered him. "She's from District Four, she's the only one who can swim. Flood the Arena and have a hovercraft ready to scoop out the survivor as soon as possible."

Lascius shook his head. "It would be too obvious. They'd know. I'd lose my job."

He was much stupider than Finnick thought if he only believed his job was on the line. Fortunately that was to Finnick's advantage. "Disguise it. Make it look like an earthquake, but make sure the dam bursts."

The Gamemaker opened his mouth to argue but fell silent as the heels clicked closer. "Crusis, darling, I'm home!"

Finnick leaned in close to Lascius's ear. "Do we have a deal?" He felt Lascius's nodding. "Good."

He loosened his hold to Lascius's throat, allowing him to speak. "Honey, I'm busy with work." The breathlessness of his voice was covered with irritation. "Just go to sleep."

"Oh, all right." The woman said breezily, passing by the study. "I've had the most _strenuous_ day, you have no idea."

Finnick really felt like laughing then, but fortunately stayed silent until the heels disappeared. He turned back Lascius, who was struggling. "All right, I'll do it, now get out of here." Lascius tried to order him.

This time Finnick laughed. It was short and harsh. "Oh no. I don't trust you for a second. You make the call while I'm here." He grabbed Lascius and pushed him toward the phone.

Lascius reached out with trembling fingers and dialed a few quick numbers. "Yes? Hello? Yes, this is Crusis Lascius, Head Gamemaker. I need you to make a massive earthquake in the Arena. And I want the dam to burst too, for dramatic effect. Yes. Right away. Have a hovercraft ready, this is the Finale." He paused. "It came to me in my sleep, damnit don't question me! Good bye." He hung up and glared at Finnick. "Happy now?"

"Not yet." Finnick reached over and turned on the projection screen on the desk, making sure the volume was off. Predictably, it was tuned to the Games. "You could have called anyone. I'm not leaving until I see the proof." He backed off from Lascius. "You can call for help if you want, but remember that your wife is just a few rooms away."

"You sick bastard." Lascius growled, like _he'd_ been raped only a few minutes ago. Finnick ignored him and threw his clothes back on. It was more for his own comfort and ease of escape than anything else: if Lascius's wife came in now, she would have to have the brain matter of a sponge not to notice the marks showing all over Finnick's body, the state of the room and the general smell of sex permeating the air.

He only had to wait a few minutes for the proof. As soon as the screen shook and he saw the entire dam on one side of the Arena crumble down, Finnick made his way to the window. There was a very convenient balcony he could climb down – he'd scoped out the house beforehand. "Just remember, you've committed treason now Lascius." Finnick told him cheerfully. "So you'd better make sure no one even so much as suspects I was here tonight. If they do," He mimed drawing a finger across his throat before pointing at the Gamemaker.

All in all, Finnick thought he held himself together relatively well. He didn't start shaking until he reached the ground and he didn't vomit until he was several blocks away. 

* * *

 

When Finnick stumbled back into the Watching Room, it was utter chaos. Mentors were yelling at the T.V., furiously phoning the Gift Center trying in vain to save their Tributes. The cannon boomed again and again. He felt sick to his stomach but there was nothing left in it for him to expel. This was the best he could do for her. And if it killed her…

Well, at least it ended her suffering quickly.

The lights on the bottom of the screen showed which trackers were still active. Finnick released a satisfied breath when he saw that "4 – Female" was still glowing bright red. The other tracker lights were going out like burnt-out-bulbs.

Brutus let out a scream of fury as Tiberius was ripped away from the rock he was gripping and pulled under. There were a few minutes, then: _Boom._ "2-Male" went out. There were only two left. The camera zoomed to show Ignotius who was holding onto a pillar with a pickaxe he'd dug into the rock. Annie wasn't hold onto anything. She was swimming, riding the current, ducking under the waves. The little display she'd shown earlier in the dam was nothing. Now she was in her element: a true creature of the sea. Finnick couldn't help his grin. Yes, it had definitely been worth it.

There was a roar like an injured bull and something heavy hit him in the side. Brutus grabbed Finnick by his neck and lifted him off of his feet, shoving him into the screen. The lights behind Finnick flickered. "You son of a bitch!" He screamed, eyes wild. "What did you do?"

"Used telekinesis to cause an earthquake, obviously." Finnick cackled, not caring that the screen was cracking behind him. "Come on, don't be a sore loser Brutus."

Brutus snarled and pushed him further into the screen. "You did something, I know you did. It's just too damn convenient that the entire arena would fill up with _water_ for the finale."

"I agree." Finnick surprised him by nodding. "It's like they wanted Annie to win. Or rather make sure Tiberius didn't. Maybe they decided they couldn't have a Victor who went around beheading other Tributes. Maybe that was the point that the Capitol decided was 'excessive violence.'" He crowed at Brutus, who flinched. "Face it, you lost. Now let go of me so I can watch my Tribute win."

Ignotius's fingers were slipping. He kept spitting up mouthfuls of water. Annie skillfully maneuvered around the rock formations: that was her worst danger, getting slammed against a rock. Fortunately the water continued to rise. Ignotius's head went under. He closed his eyes.

Annie hit a rock, but she kept on swimming.

 _Boom_.

The Seventieth Hunger Games were over.


	6. Turn your back on mother nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, the chapter titles are fighting far too well.

They waited until all the other mentors had left the Training Center to "collect him." Dora was off at some party or another and Mags was waiting for Annie outside of the private hospital ward she was locked up in. Annie had been a screaming, wild wreck when they pulled her up onto the hovercraft and had to be sedated immediately. Finnick had waited outside her room for seventeen hours, pacing the hall and pulling at his hair before Mags forced him to go back to the Training Center and get some sleep. He'd tried to protest but she'd given him a look that said _I know what you did_ and he'd reluctantly slunk back to the Center.

The Peacekeepers were waiting outside the suite and even though they didn't handcuff him Finnick honestly thought he was being arrested. His heart pounded until they deposited him in Snow's office and he forced it to slow down. Just being in the President's presence alone caused his chest to constrict with anxiety. If he was already panicking beforehand, the combined stress could give him a heart attack.

"Take a seat." Snow ordered him.

Finnick swallowed and did as he was told. _Am I in trouble?_ He wanted to ask. Fortunately the words stayed stuck against the back of his throat.

"Do you know why you're here?"

At first Finnick's instinct was to lie and say, _No_. He could think of several reasons why he was here. His servicing of Eloise under the table to gain sponsor money. The mess he'd put Snow in by giving him a Victor who was broken. And, Finnick truly hoped this wasn't the case, his manipulation of Lascius to rig the Games. "No," He told Snow truthfully, realizing he had no clue as to which transgression Snow wished to discuss with him. All of them? None of them?

"It has to do with the conversation we first had when you became a Victor." Snow told him pleasantly. Finnick hated that he couldn't read him at all. He had no idea when Snow was just being conversational or when he was about to say something that would completely destroy Finnick's life. "About Victors having a symbiotic relationship with the Capitol. As I'm sure you understand by now, the Capitol expects quite a lot from its Victors." Finnick's skin crawled. This was about Annie "Thus, it is important that all Victors be capable of providing some use to the Capitol, in one way or another. Typically the Games themselves are an assurance that only worthy Tributes become Victors, as they are the ones willing and strong enough to do whatever they must to survive. Sometimes Gamemakers are forced to interfere and ensure that the weak ones are…" He paused for a moment, and his careful choice of words made Finnick flinch, " _washed away._ Since Victors are so important to the Capitol, and the Capitol is important to me, when a situation arises that concerns me I involve myself in the Victor selection process, ensuring that the _right_ Victor emerges from the Arena."

He stopped talking then and gave Finnick a long look. "Are you saying that Annie is the _wrong_ Victor?" That seemed to be where the conversation was headed.

Snow surprised him by shaking his head. "Not at all. If she were, she would not have gotten out of that Arena. I would have not allowed it." Once again he waited for Finnick to respond.

This time, Finnick thought he understood what Snow was getting at. "You're saying that Annie is only the Victor because you allowed it…because you have something to gain from it?"

"Excellent deduction." As usual, Finnick couldn't tell if Snow was mocking him or if he honestly was surprised at how quickly Finnick grasped what Snow was saying. "You see, some people don't understand that, that I have the ultimate say in whoever wins. Some of them spend millions of dollars trying to give their favorite Tribute a victory. Some are foolish and stubborn enough to use illegal means, such as bribery, to tip the odds in their Tribute's favor. They are foolish because they make the mistake that I do not know everything that happens in the Capitol." Finnick's heart tightened as Snow gave him a knowing look. "I was surprised that you made a visit to Ms. Halspeth after you were so adamant to spend the Games looking after your Tribute."

Shit. Finnick kept his face impassive. "It got to be very stressful and suffocating in the Watching Room. I needed to take a break." Hit by a sudden burst of bravery, he cocked his head questioningly. "If I recall, our original deal stated that I must sleep with clients you select. Nowhere did it say I couldn't sleep with people of my choosing in my spare time."

"Indeed, indeed." Snow nodded. "I simply wasn't aware the Crusis Lascius was your type."

He knew. Fuck, he knew. There was no use pretending. So Finnick found himself replying sarcastically, "Well, something about creeps who get off murdering little boys really turns me on."

"Are you referring to the Tributes or the boy who died in an unfortunate incident last year?"

"Both." Finnick fidgeted with one of the tassels on the chair's arm. "So you know, huh? Are you going to arrest me?"

"If I were going to arrest you, we would not be having this conversation." Snow leaned back, taking in his nervous state. "So you can relax. The public still craves your attention and I can assure you that you personally will not be harmed whilst that is the case."

"Me personally?"

"Well, I can't offer assurances as to your loved ones." Finnick's mouth became a hard line before Snow continued. "But this time, since it worked out for everyone, I will grant you a full pardon."

Something seemed off. "And Lascius?" Snow didn't respond right away, so Finnick pressed on. "Will he be punished?"

Snow surprised him by laughing. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? No, Lascius is the perfect candidate to keep on as a Gamemaker. He is sadistic and manipulative enough to entertain the Capitol, however thanks to the secrets I hold over his head he is completely under my control."

Finnick quickly hid his disappointment. So Lascius wouldn't be behind bars any time soon. He'd have to make a point of avoiding the Gamemaker at all costs, which would be difficult on Annie's Victory Tour. "Is that why you're not upset? Because I gave you another secret to hold over his head?" No, that didn't quite fit. Finnick was missing something, something important.

"You don't realize it yet, do you dear boy?" The affectionate nickname caused a full shiver to travel from Finnick's neck to his toes. "I had no need for any additional secrets of Lascius's. He was already completely under my control when you went to him. If I truly wanted to, I could have stopped you. But I did not."

It clicked. "Because you needed something to hold over my head." Finnick whispered.

"Yes. But not in the way you imagine." Snow leaned across the desk, all traces of pleasantries gone. "You've been slipping out of my fingers for quite some time. When your mother and brother died, I imagined that you would form bonds with other people. You were young, popular and charming. However, you disappointed me and only sought the company of your mentor. You clearly love her, so that was enough for the time being. But I started to wonder: what if she was to die naturally? She is quite old, after all, older than I. And what if you tested your boundaries again and I were forced to eliminate her? You would have no incentive. I would lose control over you, and I'm not quite ready for that to happen."

Finnick recalled how Snow had denied his request initially. Then, after his divulgence about what would happen if he lost Mags, Snow had changed his mind. "So you're saying you won't kill her because you know you'll lose control of me if you do?" The thought was so liberating it was almost unbearable.

"Not at all." Snow tapped his fingers against the mahogany desk. "I'm saying that when you burst into my home the night before the Games, I saw a change in you. For the first time in years you cared about something. You were desperate. And I knew I had to preserve that feeling in you. So I let you play your games, wondering how far you would go and you didn't disappoint. You willingly traded sex for sponsorship money. You bent the rules and cheated the system to send a completely impractical, sentimental gift. You humiliated and degraded yourself, putting yourself in a perilous position so that you could illegally blackmail a dangerous man into rigging the Games. You cared so much about this girl that you compromised your entire being, just to bring back a mad, fragment of the person she once was. And that is why I allowed her to come out of the Arena. That is how she will be useful to me. She is important to _you_. And now I will not have to worry about losing control over you for as long as I need you."

The liberating feeling was gone, crushed by overwhelming suffocation. The only relief he'd ever known was the idea that someday soon, this would all end. Snow would have nothing to hold over him anymore and he would either be left in peace or he would kill himself. Now he saw nothing but darkness. Annie was young. She was damaged, but she was healthy enough to stay around for a long time. And so long as she lived, Snow could make Finnick do whatever he wanted.

"You're mistaken." Finnick found himself whispering. "I don't care about her. I just wanted a Tribute to come home for once."

Snow laughed once more. "Let us pretend I believe you. Then you wouldn't mind if she followed you in your line of work?"

This was a trick, Finnick knew it was – Annie was lovely, he could see that objectively, but she wasn't nearly popular enough to garner the kind of demand Snow could actually make money off of – but he found his hackles raising anyway. "I wouldn't mind, but her clients would. She could claw their eyes out. She's too crazy to be controlled."

"Oh, I'm sure with a little treatment she'll have her head right in six months." Snow's voice was oily. "She's not the first Tribute we've pulled out of the Arena kicking and screaming. Our doctors know what they're doing. They have the right medicines for it."

Finnick knew he was talking about Morphling. He suddenly wondered if the addicts from Six had become addicted by choice or if the Capitol had forced it on them. "I think sea water and fresh air would be better for her." He told Snow carefully. "And being around her family. Speaking as her Mentor, you're more likely to have a Victor sane enough to go out in public and give speeches during her Victory Tour if you send her home."

Snow stared at him for a while, a knowing smile on his lips. "Very well." He finally told Finnick. "You'll leave in a few days. There are some clients who were very disappointed by the wait. I'm sure you'll make it up to them adequately."

Finnick had planned on staying near Annie's room until he was allowed in. He swallowed a lump in his throat and said instead, "Of course." 

* * *

"Finnick, Annie had another nightmare." Dora looked irritated and out of breath. Her hair was slightly askew on her head and it was obvious she'd tried to wake Annie up. Her room was closest to Annie's so every time the terrified Victor started screaming in her sleep, Dora was the first to know.

"Okay, I'll go calm her down." Finnick appeased her and Dora left the compartment he and Mags had been sitting in. Neither of them had been able to sleep – Finnick because Annie kept waking Dora up and he kept having to placate her, and Mags for some unknown reason.

Finnick stood up from his chair and noticed Mags giving him a strange grin. "What?"

She shrugged innocently. "Nothing. I just think it's sweet how you're the only one who can calm her down."

He pushed down a tidal wave of frustration. His anger was at Snow, not Mags and it wasn't fair to displace that on her. "It's not sweet. There's nothing sweet about this situation. I worked so hard to get her out of that Arena and what do I get for my trouble? A screaming Tribute who can't go to sleep unless I hold her hand. Great. Excellent." His words were false and bitter. They were Capitol Finnick's words.

Mags frowned. "What's the matter with you? You've been on edge ever since you left the hospital and you've been avoiding Annie, when that girl needs you more than anyone."

Finnick rubbed his face tiredly. It was true. When Annie had finally been allowed to stay in the Training Center, she was only anywhere remotely calm in his presence. The first night there he'd stumbled back in from a client only to hear her shrieks ringing through the apartment, while Mags and Nora desperately tried to calm her. Nora had been asking an Avox for some kind of tranquilizer when Finnick entered the room. All it took was a few kind words and his holding her hand for her to calm down and fall back asleep. "Why does she need me so badly? It's not like we were close before she went into that Arena. We hardly even talked before the last day."

"You took care of her in the Arena, Finnick." Mags explained like he was an idiot. "She may not have seen you in the Watching Room, panicking about everything, like I did, but she knows you're the one who set up the Career alliance and made sure Triston protected her. She saw how many gifts you sent her. She knows _you_ sent her that book. When her entire world fell apart, you were the only person she could count on."

Fuck, what a mess. "That's dangerous." Finnick whispered. "It's dangerous for her to be dependent on me, Mags, you know…" He trailed off. He was living in the five percent of uncertainty. Right. "She can't depend on me. I can't be there for her. Mags, can you go in there and try to calm her down?" He pleaded with her. "I can't put her in a position where I'm the only one she trusts."

Mags looked at him pityingly. "I think it's too late for that, Finn." She winced as Annie's wails reached their compartment. "She's suffering and she needs help. Go help her, I know you want to, no matter how much you pretend otherwise."

She always could read him better than anyone else. Normally he wasn't certain whether that was a blessing or a curse. Today he was certain it was the latter.

As soon as Finnick pushed the door open the wailing stopped. Annie looked like she was drowning in the massive Capitol bed, her sheets in a tangled mess beside her. She was breathing frantically, her hands clapped over her ears, but at least she'd stopped screaming. Her eyes were darting around frantically, cloudy and unfocused. When he made his way over to her and gently removed her right hand from her ear, her eyes snapped to his so quickly and precisely he could almost see her sanity clicking back into place.

Her other hand fell away from her head as she clutched his hand tightly. She breathed in deeply, her left hand resting on the mattress and then digging her fingers into it. "Is this real?" She demanded hoarsely, eyes never leaving his.

Finnick frowned. When he'd first become a Victor sometimes he would cling to the desperate hope that maybe everything had been a dream. "Unfortunately yes." His thumb was doing something strange: it was rubbing the back of her hand gently of its own accord. "I'm so sorry Annie. I wish none of this had ever happened to you."

She surprised him by shaking her head adamantly. "No, it's good that it's real." He must have looked confused because she explained unevenly: "The other world…in my head, I think...I _think_ it's in my head. It's not a good world. Bad things happen there. Bad things happened here too, but they're over now. So I'd rather this world be real." She peered at him desperately. "It _is_ real, right? You're not lying to me?"

 _I would never lie to you._ The impulse to say those words was surprisingly strong and Finnick worked hard to push it down. He could never promise something like that to her. It would be a lie in itself. "I promise you, this is real." He said instead. "You survived and we're on our way home right now."

"Ok." Annie whispered, her hand feebly pulling on the sheets and covers, trying to wrap them around her. She was shaking too badly and the cloth kept falling out from her fingers. Finnick released her hand and, ignoring her startled yelp of protest at the lack of contact, took the blankets from her gently, throwing the comforter off to the side. He then straightened out the sheet and tucked it in on three sides of the bed before doing the same with the comforter, making the bed around Annie. After he was done he sat down on the edge of the bed and took the hand she extended gratefully to him. "Thank you."

"No problem." He said, like he tucked girls into bed every day. No wonder Mags thought it was sweet. Finnick could see beyond the surface though, to the clawing unhealthy blackness beneath. She was looking at him with what could only be described as blind _trust_. She was a Victor, she had to know that trusting someone else was the most dangerous thing you could do. But she was also a broken girl desperately in need of help.

As he waged an internal war with himself, Annie's hand squeezed his softly. "Finnick?" She asked softly, sounding much closer to seven than seventeen. He looked and saw that she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

"Yes, Annie?" His voice was so gentle he almost didn't recognize it. Why was he doing this, why was he encouraging her to rely on him?

"Will you stay with me?" Her face was flushed pink. "It's just, I…I go to sleep and you're holding my hand and I remember finishing my book and Odysseus returning to Penelope and I can maybe dream about that for a while but then I'm _there_ and nobody's watching me and nobody's protecting me and nobody cares about me and there's nothing to hold on to, nothing to make me feel safe and I wake up and you're not there and so I stay _there_ because _there_ nobody cares about me and I just thought…" She took a deep breath, clearly distressed from the toll that rant had taken on her, "I thought that maybe if you stayed here I would know that you were looking out for me like you did in there. When I was there…I forgot for a bit and I was gone but you made me remember and I…" She shook her head, going redder. "Forget it. It's stupid."

Annie tried to pull her hand away. Finnick didn't let her. "No, it's not." He heard himself saying. "I can stay, if you think it'll help with the nightmares. It's worth a try, right?"

She gave him a tentative smile. "I'm just being stupid." She whispered, closing her eyes again. "It probably won't help."

It did. Annie slept soundly for the rest of the night. 

* * *

When they arrived back in District Four, Finnick quickly slipped into the shadows. There were no cameras following them this time – the Capitol already had their fill of the mad girl and would not be interested again until her Victory Tour – so it was easy for him to go around the small crowd the opposite direction of where the Crestas were waiting. He thought he saw a woman who had to be Mrs. Cresta trying to wave him over, but he pushed it down. Annie had her family now and they could look out for her. He would act as her mentor for the Victory Tour and ignore her otherwise. Eventually Snow would figure out that they weren't close and would no longer even associate Annie with him. It was a stupid plan, but it was the only plan Finnick had so he was sticking with it.

Well, he _stuck_ with it until someone banged on his door at two in the morning a few weeks later. Finnick woke instantly and grabbed the knife he kept under his bed before sneaking downstairs, fully alert. The knocking was too frantic and weak to be Peacekeepers, and the voice was a woman, though not one he recognized. "Mr. Odair? Please, Mr. Odair I need your help!" He looked through the peephole and saw it was Mrs. Cresta.

He hid the knife in the potted plant Mags had given him and yanked open the door. "Mrs. Cresta? What's going on?"

Mrs. Cresta was dressed in a nightgown and bathrobe with no shoes. Her hair was wild and free from the bun he usually saw it gathered in when she passed by his house. Most concerning, she had scratched on his face. "Annie's in hysterics!" She gasped. "She's screaming and throwing things! I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself! Please, you have to –" Finnick didn't wait for her to finish before he bolted out the door, not bothering to lock it behind him. The gravel of the Victors' road stung his feet. He'd never been to the Crestas' new home but he knew exactly where it was: four doors down from his and across the street.

"Did she scratch you?" Finnick asked her and Mrs. Cresta nodded. This worried him. During her time in the Training Center and on the train, Annie had never been that violent. She had pushed Mags and Dora aside after she woke up from a nightmare but never with much strength or ferocity. When she drifted off while awake – they could tell because she would drop out of the conversation for a bit and her eyes would fix on nothing and stay there – she was almost docile.

"This isn't the first time she's woken up screaming, but I'm usually able to calm her down." Mrs. Cresta told him frantically. "This time, it was like she didn't even see me. Like she was in another world entirely."

The front door was left open still and they both dashed up the stairs. The screaming was different from her terrified screams Finnick had heard after her Games. It was the cry he'd heard only one other time: when Triston was beheaded and she tried to claw Tiberius's eyes out.

A girl around his age and a boy a little younger than Annie were in the room with her, trying to keep her away from some of the more harmful objects in the room – such as lamps – while Annie raged and threw the wrought-iron clock on her bedside table against the wall. As Finnick entered she tried to pick up the table itself but she was too weak from her poor health and he could see her arms shaking.

"Annie!" He tried calling to her softly. "Annie, it's Finnick. I need you to calm down, all right?"

She just screamed louder, drowning out his words. He tried to yell above her voice, but that just made her more irate. Frustrated, he moved toward her despite the cries of warning from the other three people in the room. Annie pulled her fist back and swung at him. He caught it easily and gripped her wrist gently. She rammed her elbow into his chin, trying to twist her wrist out of his grasp. He just gabbed her other one and held her firmly while she snarled and struggled and literally _spat_ at him.

"Hey, hey, there's no need for that." He was close enough that she could hear him now, even through her own deafening shrieks. "It's me, remember? I took care of you. You're not there. That's not real. _This_ is real. You got out. You escaped, Annie. You finished your book. I sent it to you." She stopped wailing, the wild look in her eyes receding. She was coming back slowly. "Do you remember how it ended?" Annie nodded. "Can you tell me?"

"He came back." She whispered, her throat sounding like it was absolutely torn to shreds. "Odysseus made it back to Penelope."

"That's right." Finnick nodded. He could see the boy who had to be Annie's brother, as well as Mrs. Cresta, relaxing with relief. He turned to the brother – Drew, he remembered now – "And did you ever find out what your brother made on his history test?"

"He failed." There was a hint of a laugh in her voice now. "Because he completely blanked on why District 10 was designated the livestock District and made up some ridiculous story about how Panem used to have a dowry system and all the brides with cows ended up marrying into District 10."

Finnick shot an amused look to Drew, who shrugged. "Hey, it's no more made-up than the rest of the crap they teach us."

"Drew, hush." Mrs. Cresta chastised him. She looked around fearfully and Finnick wondered if she assumed what he did: that they were moved to the Victors' Village not because of the Capitol's generosity, but so that they could be watched.

Annie was relaxing and her eyes widened as she took in the state of the room. "I did this?" She questioned, looking from the overturned furniture to the scratches on her mother's face.

Finnick moved his hands from grabbing her wrists to cupping her hands gently. "You didn't mean it, Annie." He soothed.

"I'm alright." Mrs. Cresta reassured her daughter, whose eyes couldn't seem to move away from the scratch marks. "I'm just worried about you."

Annie's shoulders started shaking. "I'm sorry!" She cried. "I'm sorry Annie didn't come back like she promised! I'm sorry this did instead."

Somebody behind Finnick let out a choked sob. He didn't turn around to see who it was. "You're still _Annie_." He scolded her. "You're just hurt, but you're still the same girl. You're still impossibly sweet and brave, and your family still loves you the same. They've been here for you, haven't they?"

She finally looked at him. There was betrayal and hurt in her eyes and she yanked her hands away from him, as if she hadn't realized who was holding them all this time. " _You_ haven't been." Her voice warbled. "You said you'd stay and look out for me and you _didn't._ You broke your promise."

Finnick decided not to argue with her and remind her that his promise – as far as he'd known – had only been about staying one night. She was too fragile to handle even the slightest hint of confrontation. "I'm sorry, I figured you would want to be with your family. I didn't want to intrude."

"I _needed_ you." Annie pleaded. "I still need you. Don't leave me. You're supposed to protect me, like you did there."

There was something very heavy clogging up his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Promise me you won't leave me again."

He didn't want to lie to her: not now, not ever. But he couldn't deny her request. Finnick inwardly struggled with himself. He didn't want any more leverage. Snow already assumed she was important to him. He hurt everyone close to him. Annie was already damaged far worse than anything he could ever do.

And it was nice to be the one doing the taking care of for once.

"I promise." 

* * *

Finnick had forgotten what a family was like: siblings fighting and then laughing together the next moment, a responsible adult to take your worries onto her own shoulders, knowing there would always be someone waiting for you when you came home. The Crestas were not a replacement for his family, nor were they even a surrogate family to him. They _were_ the first true family he'd interacted with since his mother and brother were killed, and he had the sense that if he'd let them they would have accepted him into their fold.

Mrs. Cresta seemed constantly torn between respecting his privacy and turning into a full-fledged mother hen on him. Her fingers would twitch toward his shirt when he spilled something on it, like she wanted nothing more than to wipe it clean. She eyed his growing hair and asked politely, "Your hair's getting a bit long, do you like it that way?"and it was clear she was fighting the urge to force him into a chair and cut it herself. When he returned Annie home from one of their evening walks – every day they would walk a little closer to the ocean, as Annie was trying to get over her aquaphobia and he, guiltily, was trying to help her – she blurted out nervously, "Oh, would you like to stay for dinner?" And he replied, "No thank you, I've got plans with Mags" before proceeding to invite himself over to dinner at Mags's house. Thankfully Mags did not question him.

Annie's sister Felicia was far easier to keep at bay. Finnick was honestly surprised. He was correct about his assumption that she was his age: she was only a year older than him and he sort of recalled her from school before Training. He had little memory of her aside from that so he assumed she must have gone to regular school like Annie. She was right in the age group of girls that startled giggling every time they saw him after the Games. Felicia was quite a bit more flighty than Annie and spent time with various different boys from town. Frankly he would have pegged her for a fan-girl. In the beginning when she seemed more aloof than her family Finnick attributed it to the oddness of their situation and perhaps a touch of shyness. Two months into knowing the Crestas, he had to admit his initial judgment was wrong. Felicia disapproved of him, it was as plain as that. She was an avid follower of Capitol gossip, as avid as any person not _in_ the Capitol could be, so she knew more about his Capitol lifestyle than the other Crestas. Finnick wasn't worried about it. Despite Felicia's suspicions, he had no intention of pursuing any sort of relationship with Annie, long-term _or_ short-term. So he did not need to win the approval of her sister.

One person whose approval Finnick definitely did not need to worry about was Drew's. Annie's fifteen year-old brother had been just the right age to be excited, not scared, by Finnick's Games. Annie told him that Drew had begged their mom for a month to be put into the Training program so that he could be a Victor too. Finnick wondered how many other little boys had followed down his path because of his victory. Fortunately Drew had grown far less gung-ho about the idea of Volunteering as he got older. He still worshiped Finnick though. Because of Annie's sensitivity to any talk of violence he never asked Finnick questions about his Games or fighting skills, but he was particularly thrilled to discover that Finnick grew up learning the fisherman's trade. "I keep wanting to go down to the docks looking for work, but Mom won't let me. Says I need to focus on school." Drew told Finnick as he and Annie were about to leave on their walk. "So I'm stuck teaching myself during weekends on Dad's old boat until I graduate." And Finnick, who had found fishing alone to be the most terrible thing in the world without Myron, found himself agreeing to take him out on _Sirena_ sometime. It was a casual, noncommittal offer, but Drew grinned like that was the best thing to ever happen to him.

"He's completely in love with you." Annie teased as they left the house. This time they planned on walking three-quarters of the way between where the beach turned into sand dunes and the water. "Be careful, he may be expecting a proposal soon."

Finnick chuckled, partly at the joke and partly due to sheer happiness at Annie feeling well enough to joke. "Ah, it's unfortunate he's not my type then."

It took him a few steps to realize Annie had stopped. He turned to see her peering at him thoughtfully. "He's not?"

His heart dropped at the sheer confusion on her face. Maybe she wasn't doing as well as he'd thought. "No, of course not Annie." He explained patiently. "He's a _boy_."

"But I thought…" She shook her head and blushed slightly. "I thought it didn't matter to you. Boy or girl. Your lovers in the Capitol…"

This time his heart didn't drop. It nearly _stopped_. He'd just seriously fucked up. He was supposed to be bisexual or pansexual or whatever the hell it was called. Finnick Odair, lover of all. Finnick Odair wasn't supposed to have a 'type.' He mentally scrambled for an explanation, wondering if he could tell her that things were different in the Capitol than they were here, that he was just a different person…no, no, that would be revealing too much. "I just meant that he's too young." Finnick covered quickly. "He's a boy, a kid, y'know? I would never think of him like that. He's kind of like…" _a brother_. "He's just too young. It would be wrong."

There was something strange in Annie's expression as she peered at him. "Okay." She said slowly. "I was just checking…you're different here than you are in the Capitol."

He hid his anxiety behind a grin. "Different because I am a dashing knight in shining armor who rescues you from your nightmares and takes you on romantic strolls in the moonlight."

"It's not even sunset!"

"Romantic strolls at not even sunset?"

Annie laughed. "No, I mean you don't flirt like you do in the Capitol."

"I was _just_ flirting with you." Finnick pointed out, trying desperately to steer her off track.

She waved him off. "But you were joking too…you only flirt when you're joking here and I like it. It's funny, it makes me laugh." That was why Finnick did it. "You're not joking in the Capitol. You're serious."

"Oh, I joke plenty in the Capitol."

Annie was starting to get frustrated with his contrariness. "Not when you flirt. You flirt _seriously_ in the Capitol. Like you're…like you want…"

Somehow watching her struggle to get the words out was endearing enough to push down Finnick's worry. "Like I'm what?" He demanded, smile stretching across his face. His mother had called his, "Cheshire Cat grin" and when he asked what it meant she said, _"I don't know, it's just an old expression."_

"You know what I'm saying!" Annie stomped her foot in frustration. She was so adorable when she got flustered like this.

"I do know, but I want to hear you say it." Finnick told her in a sing-song voice. "Come on Annie. Like I want what?"

She hit him on the shoulder. This surprised Finnick because she rarely ever sought physical contact playfully, only for comfort. "Like you want to get into their pants." She mumbled, face turning redder than Finnick had ever seen it.

Finnick clutched his chest in shock and awe. "Is that an _innuendo_? Ladies and Gentleman," He boomed, mimicking Caesar, "Annie Cresta has just made an _innuendo_!" He gestured extravagantly to the sky above. "I do believe the sky is falling, the world _must_ be coming to an end, for none of us ever believed that this joyous day would ever come–"

"You're terrible!" Annie shouted, but he could hear the laughter mixed with the embarrassment in her voice. "Absolutely terrible."

If she'd been a little less fragile and he a little less wary, he'd probably have grabbed her and tickled her then, and – if she hadn't been absolutely terrified of the ocean – thrown her into the water. But she was fragile and he was wary so he just knocked against her side lightly and shoved his hands into his back pockets, content that he'd redirected their conversation. 

* * *

There were good days and there were bad days. On bad days walks on the beach would upset Annie too much. The first time she ended up having a breakdown in the middle of the sand and Finnick had to carry her home. Every day after that he would be sure to ask her if she felt okay to go and every day she said yes even if she did not feel okay, because she was too proud and too hard on herself. He would watch for the warning signs, like her not responding to his incessant chatter for several minutes, or chewing on the ends of her hair, and would suggest they turn back, or veer away from the water for a bit.

They chose the beach for their walks mainly because at the right time and the right place it was fairly private, and Annie was not comfortable around strangers. Even when they stuck to the less populated parts of town he could tell she was not enjoying herself. So Finnick was particularly proud of himself when he found a nice, pretty path in the woods that hardly anyone knew about. At that point he could tell from the moment of entering the Cresta household if Annie couldn't handle the beach that day. Without saying anything he would lead them off toward the woods and she would follow gratefully. That is, until she randomly threw a screaming fit and crumpled to the ground. Once again, Finnick had to carry her home.

"Triston…" She said as he put her into her bed and Finnick patted her face sadly.

"No, Annie, it's Finnick." Her eyes were vacant and dull.

"I know." Annie whispered and Finnick felt relief that she was at least that coherent. "Triston's there, in the woods. It's _his_ woods. He's there. Except his head's still on and he's with Katri and they're pretending to be in _there_ and why would anyone do that why would they pretend to be _there_ it's such a horrible place but they don't know that except they do because then they're actually _there_ and his head's no longer there but he's still talking and telling me things but that doesn't make any sense…"

And thus ended the walks in the woods.

Finnick sighed as he made his way down the stairs. He examined his hand, the one Annie had clutched tightly as soon as she had her fit all the way up until she drifted off to sleep and Finnick left her bedside. The spots where her nails had dug in were marked by angry red crescents. Was one of them bleeding? He stopped on the third-to-bottom step, peering at it closely. It hadn't even hurt at the time; he'd been so focused on Annie's distress.

"What are you doing?" Finnick looked up to see his least favorite Cresta standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded tightly across her abdomen. Her hair was wild and he could see a purpling bruise on her neck. No questions as to what _she'd_ been doing.

Finnick walked down the last few steps, keeping his tread quiet to avoid startling Annie. "Going home. I just put Annie to bed. She had a bad day, so she might have a nightmare. You should phone me if it's bad." He added unnecessarily. Three months into this, they all knew the drill. It had gotten to the point where Felicia and Drew could calm Annie down from most normal panic attacks, and Mrs. Cresta could even intervene with some of her destructive ones. Finnick was still the only one able to reach her when she was at her worst and every once in a while he'd receive a phone call in the middle of the night that he never bothered to pick up – he just sprinted down the street. It was all very routine.

Felicia's mouth set into a hard line. "You just love playing the rescuer, don't you?"

Were they really going to do this right now? "Yes, I decided to bring your sister home instead of leaving her to claw her own eyes out because I have a hero complex. Not because, you know, I genuinely care about her or anything."

"Oh I think you care about her." Felicia walked toward him accusingly. "I just think you're a piece of shit." Finnick had to stop himself from physically flinching. He was Finnick Odair, he had faced much worse things than a spoiled – emotionally, not materially – District Four girl's words. That didn't stop them from stinging. "One that I wish never went anywhere near my baby sister."

There were many hurtful things Finnick could have said to Felicia about how at least he was actually doing something to help her precious 'baby sister,' while she was off fooling around with guys. Instead he said wearily, "Look, you can drop the protective older sister act. I think by now you should realize I'm not going to do anything to hurt Annie. I'm trying to help her get better. And I'm pretty sure your mother told you what I did to get her out of that Arena." He was talking about the book, of course. The Crestas would never find out how far he really went to bring her home.

"Yeah, she did." For some reason, this made Felicia look angrier. "I think you've put a whole lot of effort into making her completely dependent on you. And that would be fine, if you were a decent guy. But you're not. You're Finnick Odair. You've slept with at least twenty-three of the Capitol's elite."

Finnick's stomach twisted. That didn't sound like an exaggeration or a hyperbole. That sounded like an actual fact that was calculated and figured out and printed in a magazine. He never bothered to keep track of his patrons. There were repeat customers, secret customers, public customers…it was definitely more than twenty-three and twenty-three sounded like a lot.

Felicia wasn't done twisting her knife into his guts. "Men, women, old, young, fat, pretty…it doesn't matter to you. Some of my friends think you do it for the money but I've known you long enough to see that you have plenty of wealth. No, I think you do it for the thrill. To see what you can get away with. I remember you. You were one of those Career kids, those bullies who always dared each other to break the rules because you thought you were above it all. You were a cocky, arrogant kid and then you fought in the Games and they turned you into a conceited son-of-a-bitch. All of which would be fine, if you weren't so important to my sweet, damaged little sister. She's got enough shit to deal with. She doesn't need yours too."

Finally Finnick found his voice. "I'm not giving her any of my shit."

"Really? And what happens when you go back to the Capitol like you always do and do what you always do and Annie's left here heartbroken?" Finnick blinked at her in surprise. "You can't lie to me and tell me you'll be faithful. I know what you are. You're nothing more than a whore."

 _Better a whore than a slut._ There was nothing he wanted to say to Felicia more right now. That would be far too revealing, of course. Finnick forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down. When he got home he could do some weapons practice and pretend the target was Felicia's face. "You're operating under the mistaken assumption that Annie and I are anything but platonic." He informed her dispassionately. "We're just friends, nothing more. She know it's not anything more than that, I've been pretty clear." And Annie would never fall for Finnick. Not Capitol Finnick, not District Four Finnick, and definitely not the angry, bitter, vindictive, murderous, cowardly, terrified, and broken Real Finnick that he kept cradled inside, constantly shielded by the two masks he constantly switched around. She was pure goodness and there was no goodness left in Finnick. "There is nothing going on between Annie and I and there never will be."

Felicia's eyes narrowed. "I hope so, for your sake." She warned. "Otherwise there'll be hell to pay."

She had no idea how true her words were.


	7. It's my own design

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...This is worse than chapter five. There will be non-graphic torture, rape and something possibly more disturbing. Don't read if you can't stomach it.

Finnick was called away to the Capitol twice between Annie’s Victory and her Victory Tour. The first time, he managed to put Annie – and her struggles, and her dependency on him, and how was she functioning without their daily walks? – out of his mind for the two weeks he was there. He had to work to do, duties to take care of. Finnick performed his tasks robotically, feeling more cheap and fake than ever. After allowing himself to be human for four months, to interact genuinely with real people, it was harder to become soulless again.

These days he never used the train for Capitol business unless his visit there was a major publicity stunt. Instead he hitched a ride with a Peacekeeper’s hovercraft, which meant there was usually no one to greet him upon his arrival home. Finnick would be at peace to slink back to his house and sit in his bathtub for hours. One time he literally stayed curled up in the tub for over a day before Mags even realized he was back and her eyes were so sad when she pulled him out, scolding him for being reckless. They hadn’t talked about it, she’d just wrapped him up in a blanket and made a fire in the hearth, telling him he needed to take better care of himself. He’d stared into the flickering flames dully, wondering how she’d react if he told her he’d spent the entire time contemplating ducking his head beneath the surface of the water and drowning himself.

This time, Annie was there. When Finnick stepped off of the hovercraft along with the Peacekeepers, he nearly stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of her. She was curled up against the wall of the hovercraft-dock control center, her arms folded over her legs to shield herself from the world. But her eyes were bright and focused when they found his and she smiled as she stood to greet him.

“Welcome back.” She said nervously as he approached her. Finnick could see that her hair was tangled and greasy, the ends in a terrible state from all the fretful chewing she must have been doing. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent and he could see the scratch marks on her arms clearly. The anxiety that he’d blocked off while he was in the Capitol came flooding back. Right. Annie was a wreck without him. These past two weeks must have been hell for her.

One of the senior Peacekeepers was watching them suspiciously. Finnick cleared his throat in apprehension. “How, um, how did you know I was getting back today?”

“I didn’t.” Annie was stepping closer, far closer into his personal space bubble than he was frankly comfortable. Backing up or – worse – pushing her away would be terrible for her self confidence. “Every time I see a hovercraft I come here, hoping that it’s you.”

Finnick looked around, hoping that none of the Peacekeepers had heard that. “Well, I’m back now, so let’s get you home.” He turned away and began to lead her away. Her cold hand reached forward and grabbed his. Finnick stiffened, feeling the discerning Peacekeeper eyes noting this detail.

He yanked his hand away. “Come on, I’m tired.” He said impatiently to Annie, not wanting to look and see the hurt in her eyes.

In the days leading up to her Victory Tour, Finnick tried to put a little more distance between them, attempting to wean her off of him. Somehow during his time in District Four he’d managed to forget why it was such a bad idea for her to count on him. The trip to the Capitol had reminded him how utterly unreliable he was. Annie was starting to get better: Finnick almost never received calls in the night anymore. He began visiting her less frequently. Mrs. Cresta was too polite to ask why, but he was certain she disapproved. Drew stopped requesting fishing lessons. Felicia scowled at him more frequently, though Finnick didn’t fully understand _her_ reaction – this was what she’d wanted, right? Annie was the only one to vocalize her disappointment, though she did it so feebly it was almost easy to brush off with an “I’ve just been busy, Annie. Sorry.” Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Finnick told himself it was all for the best.

A week and a half before Annie’s Tour, he got a call from the Capitol from one of his handlers.

“You’re kidding, right?” He said bluntly, running a hand through his hair. “You want me to leave tomorrow?”

There was silence, then a clipped, “Yes.”

“The Tour is in _twelve days_.”

Silence again. “It’s a short visit.”

Indeed it was. Finnick was startled to discover that he only had one client, who had rented him for a private night and nothing more. His prep team was left with minimal instructions and his outfit was nothing more than slacks and a button-down. As usual, he was left with nothing more than an address. No name.

He hated how nervous he was when he rang the bell of the apartment, which was in a slightly run-down part of the Capitol. It was the kind that the ‘poor’ people of the Capitol lived in, or the wealthy rented short-term under secret aliases to conduct secret drug-trading or, well, meet with secret prostitutes. Finnick bounced on his feet impatiently. Normally he was given more _time_ than this to acclimate to the Capitol and steel himself for what he had to do. It didn’t help that he looked more like his District Four self than Capitol self at the moment. Finnick still wasn’t a fan of the fancy clothes, but they helped him slip into his persona, like an actor donning a costume. He would have actually _worn_ what he was wearing right now.

The door opened and Finnick’s mouth went dry.

“Get inside.” The man ordered him roughly, looking just as unhappy to see Finnick as Finnick was to see him.

Finnick did so. His mother had told him an old story once, about a boy who was forced to enter a lion’s den as a punishment for some misdeed against a king. In that moment, Finnick knew how that boy felt. He _was_ that boy.

The man shut the door quickly behind him, peering out to make sure no one had seen. Then he turned to scowl at Finnick. “Give me your arm.”

Finnick did so, reluctantly. He didn’t flinch when the man harshly jabbed a needle into it and injected him with something. “What is that?”

“A weakening drug. Brand new, most expensive on the market. They don’t have an antidote for it yet.” Crusis Lascius sneered at him.

Despite the fear that was growing in his chest, Finnick heard himself saying, “Oh good. You remember our last encounter and how badly that went for you. I assumed you must have forgotten, to willingly get me alone again.”

Lascius was lucky he was a client. His punch was strong, but slow and obvious. Finnick’s instincts were to grab his wrist, twist it and break his arm. He did not. He let the punch land squarely on his cheek and cause him to stumble back. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten.” He snarled. “You should _wish_ that I’d forgotten. How you tricked me, put my engagement in jeopardy-”

“How _is_ your fiancée?” Finnick asked, rubbing his cheek. “Did you get married yet or are you here because she realized what a creep you are and left you with nothing?”

“Oh, we got married.” Lascius informed him. “And it hasn’t made hiding things any easier. Making sure she was out of town and finding a way to purchase you without her noticing the money missing was _not_ an easy task.”

He sounded genuinely irritated: like it was Finnick’s fault he’d had to go through the trouble. “Why bother?” Finnick was growing increasingly frightened, but also increasingly curious. “I mean, I assume you brought me here to take your revenge, but it can’t be worth the risk. You can’t kill me. You can’t even hurt me that badly without Snow coming after you.”

Lascius surprised him by punching him again, this time in the gut. “You think I _wanted this_?” He screamed at Finnick, who was doubled over. “Do you have any idea how much fucking money it cost to have you flied out here specifically, rent this apartment and pay your whore’s price? A hell of a lot more than I would ever spend on something petty like revenge! But it’s not like I had much of a choice.” His voice was bitter. “Presidential orders.”

“Wait, Snow forced you to buy me?” Finnick was honestly bewildered. That made no sense. If this was a form of punishment for both of them, he would have had expected it to happen earlier. And Snow had promised him that he’d been pardoned for his transgressions during Annie’s Games.

“Well, I certainly didn’t want to spend half of my newly-found fortune on this.” Lascius’s voice was bitter. “You weren’t even a good fuck.”

Finnick ignored that last comment. “Fine, since we’ve both established we’d rather be anywhere but here, let’s just get this over with.”

It was a gamble and it failed. Lascius’s laughter sounded manic. “Oh no, I’m going to get what I paid for. I may not have willingly paid for this revenge, but I may as well enjoy it now that I have it.” His voice dropped along with Finnick’s stomach. “You have no idea how many nights I’ve spent fantasizing ripping your guts out with your own trident.”

As it turned out, Lascius had many different revenge fantasies. Many of them involved physical pain. Finnick was a Victor, he’d survived the Games, and he certainly wasn’t a stranger to sadomasochistic bed games. However none of that prepared him for hours of carefully deliberated and executed torture. By the time Lascius was finished there were burns, bruises, cuts and lash-marks all over his body. Finnick, who’d always been so stubborn about showing weakness in front of any Capitolite, could not keep the screams, sobs and tears inside him. Lascius was trying to break him, that was obvious. So he continued to be disappointed when Finnick would manage to pull himself together and control himself.

Eventually Lascius grew frustrated and tried to destroy him another way. He slammed repeatedly into Finnick, whispering sick things like he had when he first raped him. Lascius noticed he got more of a disgusted response out of Finnick when he talked about Finnick’s Games, so he pulled up a Replay of the 65th Games and forced Finnick to watch it while they fucked. Even when Finnick squeezed his eyes tightly he could hear the sounds of the Arena and that was almost worse because he felt like he was there again. At one point he started to drift out of consciousness but Lascius shoved something else in his arm, something that kept his mind active and alert while his body lay useless, more from the physical trauma at that point than from the earlier drug.

Once Lascius was done Finnick lay on the bed, curled up on his side, unable and unwilling to move. He wanted Lascius to actually stab him in the stomach with a trident, like he kept talking about. He wanted somebody to cut off his head, slit his artery. Why hadn’t they killed him in the Games? Why did he have to make it out alive? Was he really that much worse than the rest of the Tributes in his Games, that he was the one who was punished? Why did they get off easy?

Despite his broken thoughts, Finnick still managed a glare for Lascius when the Gamemaker came into view. Lascius’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of Finnick: abused, spent, wanting nothing more than to die but still defiant. Then his expression shifted. He moved behind Finnick and wrapped his hand around his decidedly limp penis, rubbing it. Finnick had absolutely no energy left to protest.

“I bet this feels good after that pain, huh?” Lascius whispered. “Probably better than anything else in your life. You want this.”

Feebly, Finnick’s mind tried to fight. No, no he didn’t want this. His skin was crawling and what he really wanted was to push Lascius away, to get his hands off him, for nobody to ever touch him again. Then a jolt of pleasure went up his body and he wanted to cry. He’d forgotten what good things felt like. It was dirty and tinged with fear but wasn’t everything in his life? Was there anything left in his life that was wholly good?

“You’re probably wishing it wasn’t me touching you, though.” Lascius surprised Finnick with his musing. Of course he wished it wasn’t Lascius. He wished that _anyone_ but Lascius were touching him right now. “You probably wish it was that girl, right? _Annie_.”

The revulsion that overcame him that moment was like nothing else he’d ever experienced. “No.” He whispered, almost pleading. No, don’t talk about her. She was good and whole. She did not belong here. She was the one thing that had nothing to do with any of this.

“But why wouldn’t you?” Lascius crooned. “She may not be my type, but I can see that she’s pretty. Don’t you remember how pretty she is?” Finnick shook his head, desperately shaking away any pictures of Annie. She was smiling up at him during one of their walks on the beech, looking more happy and healthy than he’d ever seen her. That was one of the few times he’d ever realized she was actually beautiful. “You don’t remember? Do you need a reminder?” Finnick shut his eyes instinctively, but it was no use. Her voice was now drifting through the room and the filth was contaminating it.

_“…because I’d like to learn how to walk in them properly. Do you know what else I’d like to learn?”_

Annie. Sweet, innocent Annie. She was clinging to his hand, desperately begging him not to leave after one of her nightmares. She was waiting for him after he returned home from the Capitol, like no one else ever had. He saw her eyes, looking at him unflinchingly, peering into his soul.

“Turn it off.” He begged, gasping against the crushing pleasure Lascius’s ministrations were causing him. “Please, turn it off.”

“Not until you look.” Lascius ordered him.

Finnick closed his eyes more firmly. _“...what it’s like to wake up everyday next to the same person, see his eyelashes flutter open and just say, ‘Hi.’”_ So innocent. So pure. His thoughts of her were mixing with the cravings originating from deep in his gut. He opened his eyes and saw her sitting on the stage. Her eyes were looking firmly at the camera, unwavering. The dress was the sea-green of her eyes. Her hair was luxurious and probably soft to the touch, falling in waves down her back. She was beautiful. So beautiful.

Finnick came.

He started to scream immediately afterward, angry and horrified at what he’d just done. He screamed himself until he was hoarse and then when he finally went silent, shivering and completely traumatized, Lascius leaned down and whispered in his ear:

“Like I said, she’s not my type. But I can see the appeal. Who know, maybe if Snow ever puts her up for sale I’ll buy her. She has your eyes. I’ll just pretend that it’s you.”

* * *

 

This time it took Mags two days to figure out something was wrong. On the third day after his arrival home she banged on the door as loudly as she could. When he didn’t respond she let herself in and found him buried under the covers, staring a hole into the wall.

“Finnick, when was the last time you ate?”

The last time he ate? That would have been before his appointment with Lascius. The last time he’d received sustenance was at the hospital he’d been shuttled off to the morning after. They kept shoving a feeding tube down his throat and his stomach kept pushing it all back up. He had no idea if any of it had stayed down. “I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you drank?”

They _had_ injected him successfully with fluids. Finnick didn’t know how long it had been since then. “I don’t know.”

She brought him water and he sipped it carefully out of a straw. The soup she fed him by hand was difficult to keep down, but he forced himself to somehow.

“When is the Tour?” He finally asked her once he indicated to her that he couldn’t stomach anything else, sinking back into the comforting solace of his mattress.

“Eight days. That should give you enough time to recover.”

Finnick tried to laugh. It came out as more like a pathetic whimper. “Of course.” That had probably been calculated precisely. Enough time for him to recover physically, but just close enough that he’d be a complete emotional wreck for the Tour. For what purpose, Finnick still wasn’t sure. “Wouldn’t want anything to get in the way of a good show.”

Mags eyed him carefully. “Something’s different…” She said worriedly. “Something’s different about you. What did they do to you?”

They were skirting dangerously close to the truth. “Nothing worse than usual,” He lied. “I’ll be fine.”

“Finnick-”

“Seriously Mags, don’t worry about me.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. Finnick thought she was probably the only person in the world who he could stand to have touch him right now. “Silly boy, you should know by now that’s impossible.”

* * *

 

He didn’t see any of the Crestas until the day of the Tour. By then the wounds that the Capitol hospital had stitched up and speed-healed had faded into scars that he knew his prep team would make quick work of. Physically, there was almost no sign that anything was different.

Mags was right though. Finnick was different, only partly due to the fact that he was now more skittish and triggered than ever. The thought of seeing Lascius again once the Tour reached the Capitol had kept him up until he went down to the docks and purchased a trident, holding one in his hands for the first time since his Games. He went down to the area in his basement that he’d set up as a target-practice for throwing knives when he got frustrated, envisioned the dummy as Lascius, and threw the trident. It went straight into the dummy’s chest. That made him feel slightly better and more relaxed, so he did it again. And again. And again.

Mainly Finnick was different because he now felt more disgusted with himself than ever before. He outright avoided Annie, knowing that he couldn’t see her. She would try to touch him; even worse, she would look at him with those eyes. The ones that he’d…she shouldn’t see him. He was revolting, a despicable creature.

He was just like _them_. Except somehow he was even lowlier, even filthier than the Capitolites. They used him and played with him and destroyed every piece of his soul and he hated them, yet somehow they’d managed to turn him. The only scrap of sanity he’d clung to this entire time was the knowledge that he was somehow better than them. Now they’d taken that as well.

He couldn’t see Annie but he had to. He was her mentor. She needed him to survive this Tour. So the night before he had to see her, he took everything thought he’d ever had about her that was somehow, even distantly, related to anything physical and shoved in a box within his mind. Every random observation, every memory of any time he’d touched her, every thought that even slightly resembled objectification. The way that her nails had dug into his palm, that one time he’d reached to push her hair out of her mouth and the back of his hand had brushed against her lips. Even the knowledge that she was in any way pretty. Annie was not pretty. He did not think of her that way and never would.

This was easier when he did not look at her. He stood behind her during her speeches and guided her through parties, but he never looked in her eyes. She would constantly seek his attention out, trying to meet his eyes before he averted his own quickly. It had to be this way. It just had to.

By the time they got to Two, Finnick was both exhausted from his efforts of evading Annie and relieved that they’d made it this far. Rather than dispirited, Annie seemed almost _challenged_ by his neglect and with every District her voice was louder. She’d had no nightmares on the Tour so far. Finnick had never heard of a Tribute actually doing better on their Victory Tour than at home, but Annie was defying all expectations.

He thought that was a good thing until he ended up standing awkwardly next to Brutus during the party. “And here I thought she was too off-her-rocker to be seen in public.” The irritable District Two mentor sneered. “I’d heard rumors that the President was just going to leave her to rot in Four after the Tour, but maybe he’ll find some use for her after all.”

Finnick’s skin prickled. He had the inkling there was more to what Brutus was saying than what was on the surface. “What do you mean?”

Brutus smirked. It was in that moment that he realized Brutus knew. Finnick didn’t know how, but he did. “I mean you’ll finally have some company in the Capitol. Not as popular as _you_ , of course–”

Brutus was still laughing when Finnick pushed past him, desperate to be anywhere but there. Fuck. Snow wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. When he’d threatened it, that had just been a ploy to get Finnick to reveal himself. But Lascius had mentioned something and so had Brutus…And Annie was – not pretty. She was not pretty. Not to Finnick. Other people seemed to think she was, though. Snow hadn’t done anything because she was mad. If he thought she wasn’t mad, if Annie showed up at the Capitol as put-together as she had been tonight…

“Finnick!” Her voice caught his ear and he turned to her. She was wearing – he didn’t care what she was wearing. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t looking at her. “Finnick, you look upset, what’s the matter? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

Of course he wasn’t. They were in District Two, which meant they were only a few days away from the Capitol, which meant they were only a few days away from seeing Lascius and him having to fuck people who could flay him alive if they wanted to and nobody would give a shit. There would be people who would possess him and turn him and twist his thoughts and somehow even though it didn’t seem possible they would make him even more repulsive and foul than he already was. She didn’t know this of course. Because they believed she was crazy and that protected her. If they thought she was even remotely close to being publicly acceptable…she could know the things he knew.

“Of course not.” He heard himself hissing at her. “There’s nothing enjoyable about any of this. And you would know that if you weren’t mad.”

Mad.

Mad, mad, mad.

He could almost hear he word echoing around in her head. Not once had he ever said such a thing to her. She wasn’t crazy. Finnick, Finnick was crazy. He and all the other Victors who kept some semblance of themselves after the Games. Annie was the only sane one among them. She was just hurt. She was damaged. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t mad. He’d refused to let herself think that, and look where it had gotten her. Fixed enough to the point where she could _pretend_ to be okay on her Victory Tour.

Her fragile barriers crashed down and she started screaming. Her fingers dug at her hair, pulling on it. All the other guests at the party backed off, frightened of the mad girl. That night and the next they had no choice but to tranquilize her, knock her out so that she would sleep. Halfway through her interview with Caesar, she stopped talking and went utterly silent. She had to be taken away from the Victory Party twenty minutes in. District Four left the Capitol in complete disgrace that year. What a shame, they said. What a pathetic Victor.

Finnick was glad.

* * *

Finnick was the one to cause Annie’s meltdown at the Victory Party. She was already a mess when her prep team shoved her into a glittery white ball-gown and spent the limousine ride curled up in her seat. Their entrance was different from Finnick’s had been: instead of adoring fans reaching out to cup her face and pet her hair, they stayed several feet back with smirks on their faces, whispering to one another like spectators at a zoo.

Or a freak show.

They were close enough to still terrify Annie and she cast her gaze downward, focusing on the ornate patterns of the marble floor. Finnick was just coming to terms with the notion that he was going to spend the party telling Annie where to step because she refused to look up, when he met dark eyes across the room.

His skin got very hot and very cold at the same time, constricting around his throat and making the muscles in his legs go numb. The barely invisible scars on his back prickled with familiarity, sensing that their creator was near. Lascius’s lips curled into a smile. Finnick looked around quickly for the nearest Vomitorium, his breath coming out in short gasps (fortunately the only one near enough to hear was Annie). He couldn’t do this. Not without his trident, not without a weapon to sink into Lascius’s chest. He was just about to leave Annie’s side when he saw Lascius flick his eyes between Annie and Finnick, smile growing.

_“Even I can see that she’s pretty.”_

Finnick’s grip on his drink tightened. He looked away from Lascius, only to catch eyes with a woman who was eyeing him hungrily.

 _His knees were digging into the carpet and his hands kept trying to bunch into fists. He forced them to caress the hips and thighs of the woman he was kneeling in front of instead, while he ate her out. She tasted like thick Capitol perfume and he wondered if she’d sprayed some_ in there _. He shuddered at the image, because he was only seventeen and had not been exposed to the more revolting and disgusting fetishes of the Capitol._

She was a former client. Finnick had so many at this point, he was used to running into them everywhere. Maybe it was the skin Lascius had shaved off his back but he felt more raw and exposed to them now and the memories they brought with them. Or maybe it was the innocent girl beside him, in her virgin-white dress, who was too pure for their greedy gazes.

Finnick saw a few more clients looking their way. His memories started to shift, rearrange themselves.

_Annie cried out as Lascius shoved her against a desk, bruising her delicate skin with his cruel hands. Annie was kneeling on the carpet, horror on her face as the woman bared herself to the girl expectantly. Annie’s fingers trembled as she struggled to unbuckle the man’s belt before her. Annie struggled against the ropes holding her back while a woman dripped burning chocolate on her stomach. Annie backed away in horror as a couple approached her with ‘toys’ in their hands that had to be classified as instruments of torture, squealing, “Let’s play a game!”_

Though he needed the Vomitorium now more than ever, he couldn’t leave Annie here alone with these people. Their eyes were focused on himbut every once in a while they would move to consider Annie with seemingly innocent glances. There was nothing innocent about these people, any of these people. The Capitol was a dirty rotting cesspool of sex, something that should not touch her. People were coming closer now, less timid than before when they entered. They saw the difference between this frail, porcelain thing staring at the floor and the wild banshee who’d dug her thumbs into Tiberius’s eyes. This delicate thing was not a threat to them. She was accessible. They could touch her.

Finnick’s eyes caught something in the distance. He swallowed, unable to believe what he was about to do but forcing himself into it before he could consider the moral repercussions. “Annie, look over there.” He whispered.

She looked up trustingly and followed his gaze until she saw what he was staring at: the magnificent pool in the middle of Snow’s garden, water streaming down in intricate patterns. On account of her lowered head she hadn’t seen it until now. It was close enough that they could jump in.

Finnick moved his hand to her back as if to guide her toward the pool and Annie screamed. She thrashed and tried to escape his grasp. He held her tighter, knowing that would cause her to fight harder. The party guests watched in horror as Annie scratched Finnick’s face, neck and arms in her efforts to break away and run. Her eyes were vacant and crazed, just as they had been in the Arena.

The Peacekeepers injected her with a sedative and escorted them out. 

* * *

 

Once they arrived back home there was no question of Finnick seeing any of the Crestas. He’d completely betrayed Annie’s trust in him, on every level, and he had no doubt she’d informed her mother and siblings in some way. That was good. Finnick was finished with Annie. His mentorship was done, he would stay away and she would remain in District Four, hidden from Capitol eyes like all shameful Victors. It was best for everyone.

Mags refused to be convinced of this. Finnick had heard that when Victors grew older, they became more resigned. Not Mags. She was more fiery and passionate than she had been when they first met. “That girl needs you,” She told Finnick one morning when she foisted breakfast upon him. “If you abandon her, you let the Capitol win.”

Finnick frowned around the muffin she’d used to gain entrance into his house. Mags didn’t get it: if he’d stuck by Annie’s side, the Capitol would have won. Or at least, Snow would have. “It’s better this way. She’s better off alone with her family, so she can forget.”

He heard Mags snort as he turned away. “Forget? Boy, it’s been nearly sixty years since my Games and I still see them in my sleep. None of us can ever forget.”

This was the first admission of weakness he’d ever heard Mags make. “Only because they still drag you out to the Capitol.” Finnick told her. “They’ll never make Annie be a Mentor. Hell, she could probably get away with not watching the Games ever again and simply plead insanity.”

“She is _not_ insane.” Mags told him fiercely. “You and I both know that. But without proper guidance and care she could be headed that way.”

“Her family loves her. They’ll help her.”

“That’s not enough. She needs somebody who understands her and she can trust completely.” She looked pointedly at Finnick.

He refused to squirm under her gaze. He was not seven anymore. “Well, that sure as hell isn’t me right now.”

“Yes, you made sure of that, didn’t you?” Mags told him shrewdly. “I don’t know what you think you’re protecting her from – maybe you decided somewhere along the line she would be better off insane – but I can assure you that you’re wrong. That girl told you that she wanted to _live_ : not spend the rest of her days locked up in her room because she was afraid of her own shadow. She won’t even look at water now. Her mother has to bathe her with washcloths she wets in a separate room.” Before the Victory Tour, Annie had gotten to the point where she was willing to at least shower. It hurt Finnick to hear all their hard work had gone literally down the drain. It was even worse knowing that it was completely his fault. “I’ve lived a long time Finnick. I know many things. And I know for certain that if you don’t make things right with Annie you will regret it for the rest of your life.” Mags sounded truly upset now. “She deserves to have you in her life.”

Before he could stop himself, Finnick heard the words, “God no, she deserves so much better than _that_ ,” come out of his mouth. From the look on Mags’s face, he knew he’d given himself away, so the rest just tumbled out. “I’m too fucked up. Annie…she’s better off without me. I’d do her more harm than good.” Something wet was forming in Mags’s eyes so he looked away. “She’s better off with just her family.” Finnick repeated. “They can be there for her.”

Mags reached out and cupped his hand. “Finnick, Abigail is dying.”

It took him a moment to register what that meant. “Abigail...you mean Mrs. Cresta?” Mags nodded. “What – how – what do you mean, dying?” There was no question of why. If Mrs. Cresta was dying, it was Finnick’s fault. His heart thumped loudly in his chest.

“She has an incurable disease called Lupus. She’s been battling it for years now and has been deteriorating in the last few months. Right now she is bedridden and the doctor’s predict that she will pass in a few weeks.”

“The past few months…” Finnick repeated in horror. He thought of the little he’d seen Mrs. Cresta in that time. Had she seemed ill? Thinner, perhaps, but he’d thought it was the additional stress of taking care of Annie. Fuck, she’d been Annie’s main caretaker while she’d been dying. Or had she been doing well until he’d placed that additional stress on her fragile shoulders?

Mags seemed to read his mind. “Finnick, no. This was nothing that you caused. This was outside of you.”

How could she know that? How could she know that the Capitol hadn’t slipped something in her food, something that caused her to worsen? “Mags, I rigged the Games.” He finally admitted, practically mouthing the words, his whisper was so quiet. “Snow promised he wouldn’t…he said I’d had a full pardon but then something happened and I think it was a punishment for what I did. Who’s to say – that this, this wasn’t–”

“Even if it was, you are not responsible for all the evil in the world.” Mags said firmly, before sighing. “But I honestly believe this is a natural tragedy. Such things still _do_ happen, believe it or not.”

“It’s hard to believe it.” Finnick whispered. “Every time something happens I think, ‘Oh no, how did I mess up this time?’ Because I mess up _a lot_. And people get hurt and they die and…and that can’t happen to Annie. It just can’t.”

Mags cupped his face. Her eyes were sad. “Is that what this is really about? There’s nothing you can do to convince Snow you don’t care about Annie. It’s too late for that. Even if you never saw her again, he would still remember what you did for her. No matter what you do, he will use her against you. Just as he uses me.”

The world seemed to stop in that moment. In the distance Finnick could hear the wind whistling against the cliffs and the waves crashing on the shore, but nothing existed except for him and Mags, sitting in the kitchen as they discussed the darkest secrets of their worlds. “You knew?” He questioned her. “But I…I didn’t think–”

“As I said, I have lived a very long life.” Mags sighed. “The majority of that life has been as a Victor. The Capitol never hurt me in the ways that they’ve hurt you, but I am very familiar with the concept of doing what they tell you in order to save your loved ones’ lives. And no matter how many they kill or pass on naturally, they always seem to find more people that are important to you. Because we are human and we are conditioned to love. After your family died, I suspected Snow was using me to control you when I asked you why you continued to smile for the cameras and play their games. You lied to me and told me you were afraid they would kill you. It was then I knew.”

“I was afraid to tell you…you were the only person I had left in the entire world.” Finnick rubbed his temples tiredly. “I was afraid if I told you, that you’d–”

“That I’d what?” Finnick didn’t respond. He just looked out the window. Suddenly, Mags let out a short bark of laughter. “You thought I would kill myself? After all these years of surviving?” She sounded so genuinely surprised that Finnick couldn’t help feeling oddly hurt. It must have shown on his face, for Mags amended, “I would give my life for you in a heartbeat, Finn. You are my family. But I know I can do far more good alive than dead. If I killed myself, who would have looked after you? Who would have loved you as I do?”

Finnick looked away. “That was sort of the idea. If you died then I’d be free to follow you.”

Mags clenched his hand then, almost as tightly as Annie did when he was acting as her lifeline. “Don’t you say that, Finnick Odair.” She commanded. “Let me tell you something. You are not the only Victor to feel that way. In fact, I would imagine most Victors have had those thoughts, sometimes lasting for years in length. But do you know how many Victors have killed themselves over the years?”

“No.”

“One. She was strung out of on Morphling when she jumped off a bridge. Whether or not it was actually suicide or if she believed she could fly is still in question.” Finnick blinked in surprise. “Do you know why that number is not higher? Because we Victors are _survivors_. We won our Games because we wanted to live more than anyone else in the Arena. We refused to let the Capitol have our lives. When President Snow came into power, I think he saw how dangerous that actually was. He realized how easily Victors could be transformed into a symbol of rebellion. So he began to place more control over Victors and bound them tighter to the Capitol. It wasn’t enough to bathe them in riches and hope they’d serve as an example of the generosity of the Capitol. They had to _endorse_ the Capitol, sing its praises. That is when it became common practice to threaten Victors to keep them in line, for the more rebellious ones. Snow’s need for control and the Capitol’s greed have become wrapped up together and have begun to spiral out of hand.” Her eyes bore into Finnick’s. “This slavery they’ve forced you into…I’m not sure if it is a symptom of extreme complacency or paranoia. Either way, things are about to reach a boiling point. The practice of selling Victors is a few decades old, but I and the other Victors have never seen anyone exploited to the extremes that you have.”

There were a thousand questions swimming in Finnick’s head. Was it slavery, what he was forced into doing? Was Mags suggested Snow was actually _afraid_ of them? He wasn’t the only Victor threatened into sex? She talked about his sex life freely with other Victors? What did she mean by boiling point? “What does that all mean?”

“That things will not be like this forever.” Mags said bluntly. “And you should not live life as if they will. I don’t know what Snow said to you about Annie or what things he’s put into your mind, but trust me when I say that if you make yourself miserable and alone, he wins. If you let her fall into madness, he wins. And like I said, she deserves better than that. You both do.” 

* * *

 

Mags’s words were not enough to calm to tumultuous upheaval of confusion in Finnick’s mind, but they were enough for him to find himself dressed in a formal black suit, staring at black dress shoes on the day of Abigail Cresta’s funeral. It was to be a small affair, like his family’s had been, and Finnick had not received an invitation.

“She wants you there,” Mags had slipped to him. “She keeps asking for you, but Felicia did not want you to come so that’s why you haven’t heard anything. Go to the funeral. Don’t let this be a regret, lad.”

He pulled on the dress shoes. It was the beginning of March which for District Four meant the rainy season was almost finished and it was just starting to be beautiful again. The sky was clear and there was a nice cool breeze that kept Finnick from overheating in his suit. As she was dying, Abigail had requested a land-burial rather than a sea-burial, knowing Annie would not be able to cope with even standing on a dock. It reminded Finnick of his family’s memorial service. He tried to convince himself that was where the similarities ended.

When he arrived at the burial ground Finnick almost turned back. Fortunately Mags appeared beside him and said, “Be a gentleman and escort an old lady, would you? These old bones aren’t what they used to be.” So he had Mags at his side when he arrived. Predictably, Felicia glared when she caught sight of him. Drew looked awkwardly away, still unsure what to make of his childhood hero. Their reaction was unimportant, however.

Annie gasped when she saw him and knocked Felicia’s grasp from her arm. “You’re here!” She exclaimed, running up to him and almost tripping on her heels. They were shorter than the ones she’d worn at her pre-Games interview. Finnick pushed down any associated memories with that interview and focused on the Annie in front of him. She was too thin, too pale and it was clear that it had taken all of Felicia’s effort to make her look somewhat presentable. “I didn’t think you’d come. It’s almost about to start.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He struggled to find words. Mags took this opportunity to slip away, her old bones suddenly working just fine. “It…took some courage to come here.” She was looking at him with those intense, questioning eyes and he was meeting them for the first time in months. “I’m sorry I’m late. I should have been here sooner.”

“No!” She said a little too loudly, causing several heads to turn. Annie didn’t notice, as had become usual when she did things outside the social norm. “I’m glad you came at all. I didn’t think you cared about me anymore. Because I’m mad.” She stated matter-a-factly.

Finnick’s chest tightened, seeing firsthand the effects his words had on her. “No, no, you’re not. I’m sorry I said that…I didn’t mean it, Annie. I was just trying to…” He looked around, well aware that they were not in the best location to discuss this. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not true, I definitely don’t believe it’s true and I didn’t when I said it.” She looked confused, which was only to be expected: Finnick didn’t think even the sanest person would understand the gibberish that had just come out of his mouth. “I care about you.” He finally stated. “I do, a lot, I just–”

Annie cut him off by hugging him tightly, just as she had before her Games. She was so small and cold that Finnick found himself rubbing circles on her back, trying to warm her up. “Thank you.” She whispered. 

* * *

 

Finnick was no longer welcome in the Cresta household. Felicia – who’d inherited the status of head of the family despite the house technically being Annie’s – made that very clear. If she’d been disapproving of their friendship before, she was adamantly, violently against it now. In her eyes, Finnick had proven himself to be exactly the asshole she’d suspected him to be.

“I mean, she’s right, isn’t she?” Finnick asked Mags one day while he helped her weed her garden in preparation for planting season. “I did hurt Annie, just like she predicted.”

Mags pushed her hair away from her face with a huff. Bending down to garden was getting harder for her these days, but Finnick didn’t have the heart to ask her to give up her greatest passion. “Maybe, but not for the reasons she thinks.”

Finnick thought back on his reasoning. “In all honesty, I can’t tell you exactly why I did it. It’s still a bit jumbled in my mind.” And he still was not entirely convinced he was doing to right thing by going back to Annie.

“That may be the case. However, I’m certain that your driving desire was to protect her, not hurt her. You were just confused how to go about it. And,” She added, reading his mind as always, “I think you are finally back on the right track.”

Just because Finnick was not allowed back in the Cresta house did not mean he could not spend any time with Annie. Felicia was not home all the time and as two Victors with nothing better to do it became easy for Annie and Finnick to figure ways around her schedule. At first Finnick felt sort of bad for sneaking around with Annie because he knew how that looked, and he honestly thought Annie needed to learn to stand up to Felicia and simply tell her sister that she was an adult and could do what she pleased. But Annie actually enjoyed figuring out how to deceive Felicia and they made a game out of it. Finnick enjoyed both seeing Annie’s rebellious streak and the ingenious ideas she came up with. For now, their game was working as a surprisingly effective therapy for Annie.

They continued their former therapy of beach-walks. It had been frustrating at first, because they had to start at the beginning and Finnick knew it was completely his fault, but a few weeks in they hit a sudden stride of progress. If they continued at their current pace, Finnick was certain Annie might be able to handle the tide washing over her feet before the Games.

Currently they were a safe enough distance away from the water that they didn’t have to worry about any of it reaching them, even at high tide. They were playing a game Annie had invented where they asked each other silly questions (safe questions that had nothing to do with the Games). They had started with questions like, “Do you think fish get thirsty?” before progressing to “What is your favorite nursery rhyme?”

“Okay, Miss Annie Cresta,” Finnick challenged her, “What is your most embarrassing moment?”

She blushed deeply, as he’d been hoping. “Oh no, that is an unfair question. Because that requires a story, not a quick response.”

Finnick nodded his head down the beach. “Well, I’d say we’ve got a good thirty-minute walk home so we’ve got time for a story.”

Annie crossed her arms and her face turned redder. “But I don’t _want_ to tell this story.” She told him petulantly. “It’s embarrassing!”

“Well yeah, that’s sort of the point.” Finnick teased her. When she continued to remain silent, he jumped in front of her and walked backwards, clapping his hands and chanting, “Story time! Story time! Story time! Story–”

“Finn, you are such a _child_.” She said affectionately and he felt warmth at the nickname. Only Mags and his family had ever called him that before. “Okay, fine. Now stop walking backward before you trip and fall on your butt.” He flipped around to be beside her again. “I was seven, and it was during recess. My best friend Hailey and I were sitting under the oak tree near the picnic tables.” Finnick wondered who this ‘Hailey’ was and where she’d been since Annie’s Games. “We were playing some sort of card game…I don’t remember what it was.” There was a blank expression on her face for a moment but she shook it off. “Anyway, this boy, Jon something, I don’t remember his last name, came over. He asked us if he could play cards with us and I said no, it was only a two-person card game. So then he asked if he could play cards with just me and I got super mad because he was excluding Hailey and that wasn’t fair. So I yelled at him and called him a bully and told him to go away. He got really upset and started crying. Then Hailey told me that Jon wasn’t trying to be mean, he wanted to play with me alone because he _liked_ me.” She emphasized the word ‘like’ and Finnick sniggered.

“Gotta love elementary drama.”

“Yes.” Annie agreed primly, her face turning redder. “Anyway, I felt really bad and the next day at recess I apologized to Jon. Then, because I thought I was doing him a favor I leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips.” Her face now looked like a strawberry. Finnick was struggling not to laugh. “I figured he would be pleased since he wasn’t a very cute boy and I was being nice to him by kissing him. But he wiped it off and said, ‘You’re a terrible kisser. I don’t think I like you anymore.’ And then he ran off and we never spoke again.”

Finnick burst out laughing now. “Oh, Annie, that’s precious.” He told her. “I can picture that so easily…He really said that? What kind of seven year old is a good kisser? How would he even _know_?”

“I’m not sure if he even knows now…” Annie said with a hesitant smile. “He grew up sort of pudgy–”

That just made Finnick laugh harder. “I bet that makes you feel good, secretly.” He crowed at her. “I think that may just be the best first kiss story I’ve ever heard.”

Annie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling and her face was less red now. “What about your first kiss?”

“Less entertaining than yours.” Finnick told her absentmindedly, his head still in the zone of childhood memories and not thinking of anything else. “I was five and there was this girl in my class who had pretty blonde braids – I can’t even remember her _first_ name – and I came up out of nowhere and planted a big fat kiss on her cheek. I really don’t remember much about her except for those braids and her running around screaming about cooties afterward.”

Annie chuckled and shook her head. “That was plenty entertaining, but that doesn’t count as a first kiss. It has to be on the lips.”

Finnick’s mind jolted out of childhood memories and he nearly tripped over thin air. “On the lips? Why does it have to be on the lips? Yours was just as innocent as mine – it’s not like you told me the story of your first _real_ kiss.”

“Under the docks, with Percy Brintinger.” Annie said, surprisingly without hesitating. Finnick raised his eyebrows at her. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Yes, I know what normally happens under the docks, but it wasn’t like that. I was fifteen, a bunch of us had been out swimming and we separated from the group for a bit. He told me he liked me and we kissed. We went out for a few weeks until we realized we didn’t really like each other and became friends again. It was all very tame, very innocent.” She looked at him expectantly. “Now what about you?”

Finnick’s mouth was dry. He could make up something. He _should_ make up something. There was no one around to report him or get him in trouble if he told her the truth, but he didn’t want Annie to question anything about his carefully constructed façade. She already saw him too clearly for him to be comfortable. Besides, she was having a remarkably good day. If anyone were to overhear their conversation, they would think her a perfectly normal young woman. It would be cruel to say anything distressing to her and especially to bring up the Games…

“Finnick?” Annie was frowning back at him and he realized he’d stopped walking. “What’s wrong?”

He swallowed. The time to make up a whimsical story had passed. “I don’t want to upset you.” He told her honestly. “You’ve been having such a good day.”

Annie took his hands, the way that he had taken hers so many times when she was distraught. “If something’s troubling you, I want to know. You’re always here for me when I need you. Let me be here for you. I’ll be okay.”

She was so fragile. He was an idiot to believe her, to trust her, but… “I’ve, um, never told anyone this before.” The words came tumbling out. “My first kiss happened the night before I went _there_.” He carefully avoided saying ‘Arena’ or ‘Games’, knowing Annie probably couldn’t handle that. She still stiffened and he watched her closely. She nodded, indicating he should go on. “It was my District Partner, Yvonne. She came into my room and–”

“Wait.” Annie interrupted. Her hand went to her hair but she brought it back down forcefully, focusing her concentration on Finnick. “I thought…in your interview, didn’t you um, you said you were experienced. I think I remember that.” Now she was blushing again.

“Yeah, that was a lie.” Finnick didn’t want to go further into that. He couldn’t. “I wanted sponsors and I…I lied. I didn’t know anything. Honest to god, the most I’d done up until that point was kissing the girl with the braids on the cheek. But Yvonne…” He swallowed. It was ridiculous that after everything he’d been through, this still bothered him. “She believed it like everyone else. The whole time she’d been ignoring me because I was so young… ‘Shark bait,’ she called me.” He remembered. “She didn’t think I stood a chance, didn’t think I was worth allying with.” If he’d been paying more attention he would have been careful about using words that would trigger Annie. If he’d been paying more attention he would have noticed how resolutely Annie was refusing to let the triggers make her drift, how intent she was on being there for him. But he was caught up in his memories. “When she came in that night, I was so scared and nervous for the next day I thought she was going to kill me. She said something about wanting a little bit of company on our last night and how she’d thought I was a little kid before but now she knew I wasn’t…because I’d lied and said I was experienced, which she didn’t know.” He laughed hollowly. “Then she…she kissed me and she stuck her tongue down my throat and I remember thinking that it wasn’t how I expected a kiss to feel at all because I couldn’t breathe and it could have been pleasant if she wasn’t so aggressive and I’m pretty sure she bit my lip but I didn’t notice until afterward because my lip was bleeding. Then her hands kind of moved toward my neck and I worried she might have been distracting me so that she could throttle me…which made me remember that she would actually try to murder me. So I threw her off because she would want to kill me. She didn’t love me or even like me or even tolerate me. There was a very high chance she would try to kill me twelve hours from then. And that was…not how I wanted my first kiss to go.” He finished lamely.

Annie was staring at him and Finnick, who had come back to reality now, suddenly worried that he’d sent her off into some kind of mental tailspin. He felt like slapping himself. It had been _such_ a good day and he’d gone and fucked it up. With a story that wasn’t even a big deal. Okay, great, his first kiss had been with someone who’d wanted to kill him. Big fucking deal. He’d just recently spent hours getting fucked by a man who explicitly told him during all the ways he’d kill Finnick if he were ever given the permission. Yvonne honestly shouldn’t still bother him. It was stupid and now he’d gone and upset Annie when he could have just made something up and –

She reached forward and hugged him. Finnick was shocked at the physical contact and it jarred with all the thoughts he’d just been having. “I’m so sorry, Finn.” She whispered, her palms pressing against his back the way that his mothers’ had when he first came home from his Games. Unthinking, Finnick buried his face in her hair. It was so soft and comforting. “You deserved better than that.”

Finnick closed his eyes and let her stroke his hair, thinking for the first time in years, that maybe he did deserve better after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a question about this on FF.net, so I'd like to clarify that the creepy part in the middle where Finnick is imagining Annie being forced to do all those things...those are all real memories of his, his mind just replaced himself with Annie because he was afraid they would do the same things to her they did to him.


End file.
